


Unbreakable

by RaindropsOnDeadRoses



Category: Supernatural
Genre: First Time, Fluff, M/M, Slash, Wincest - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-03-27
Updated: 2013-07-30
Packaged: 2017-12-06 15:52:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Underage
Chapters: 14
Words: 20,872
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/737450
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RaindropsOnDeadRoses/pseuds/RaindropsOnDeadRoses
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pre-series story about John and Dean going on a hunt, leaving Sam alone, and the events that follow. Eventual wincest, slash and fluff.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Fourteen-year-old Sam Winchester dragged the back of his hand across his eyes and yawned. It wasn't quite light outside yet, but his internal clock told him that it was early morning, maybe six, which meant that his father and brother should still be sleeping. However, he heard their voices floating in from the living room of their apartment of the month, and strained to make out what they were saying.  
“Hell no,” Dean demanded, his voice firm.  
“Don't you argue with me, boy. I said you're coming with me, and that's final.”  
Sam froze. Coming where?  
“No,” Dean repeated, “I'm not. I’m not leaving Sam alone while it's out there. We have no idea how close it could be.”  
“Dean.” John's tone was pure command. “This is a big job. Bigger than I thought in the beginning. I can't handle it alone. You are coming with me. Sam will be fine. He can take care of himself.”  
“Oh, yeah? And what if it does come while we're gone, Dad? What then?” Dean countered.  
John was quiet for a moment before responding, “There's always going to be something, Dean. Whether it's this wendigo or not, there'll always be something. Sam knows how to protect himself. He wouldn't let anything get in.”  
“Accidents happen,” Dean insisted. “So, humor me. What if?”  
At that moment, Sam pushed open his bedroom door and stepped into the living room.  
Dean worked to rearrange his features into a mask of calm. “Hey, Sammy,” he greeted a little too cheerily.  
Sam gave him a half-smile and turned to John. “Dad, what's going on? Why does Dean have to go with you?”  
Dean's facade dropped as soon as he learned that Sam had overheard their conversation.  
John sighed. “Because I can't take this one on by myself, Sam.”  
Sam stood quietly for a moment before asking, “Do you think there're more?”  
John nodded wordlessly, eyes cast downward.  
“What?” Dean asked incredulously. “That's why? Dad, there is no way in hell we're leaving him here alone if there's more than one out there.”  
Sam took a seat on the couch beside Dean, placing a hand on his arm and interjecting before John had a chance to speak. “Well, okay... Let's just think about it, Dean. Whether I’m alone or not, really, I'll be safer here. And Dad'll be safer if you're with him. It'll only be a couple of days, right? That's not too bad. And you can call and check in every few hours, make sure I’m alright. If anything happens, I'll let you know, and you can head back here.”  
Dean didn't respond for a long moment, chewing on the inside of his cheek. “I don't know, Sam. I don't like it.”  
Sam's hazel eyes locked on Dean's liquid green ones, entirely open and honest. “I know you don't. But it's not like you'd be going anywhere too far. It's only a couple of towns away. You could get back fast if you needed to. Not that you would need to, though, because everything would be fine.”  
After pausing for an even longer amount of time, Dean asked, “Are you sure? Completely sure? Because if you need me to stay, I'll stay.”  
John didn't even attempt to dispute Dean. He could talk a big game, but he knew that, ultimately, whether he was the father or not, when it came to Sam, Dean made the decisions. Not that he'd ever admit it. But that was how it had always been, really. Even a few moments ago, telling Dean that he had no choice but to accompany him, John knew that Dean would do whatever he thought was best for Sam in the end, regardless of what he said. That knowledge made a part of John swell with pride for his oldest son, taking charge just like he'd always taught him and protecting his brother at all cost, and a part of him feel like his heart was breaking because he knew he'd never have the kind of relationship with Sam that Dean did.  
“I'm sure,” Sam confirmed, breaking John from his thoughts.  
John forced himself back into commanding officer mode, and when he spoke, his voice was as rough as gravel. “Go pack, Dean. We're leaving in ten.”  
Dean reluctantly stood and went to pack his things, which wasn't too hard a task considering they never really got unpacked. When he finished, he returned to the living room and squatted down in front of the couch where Sam was seated. “Gun?” he asked expectantly.  
“Under my pillow,” came Sam's automatic answer.  
“Good. Money?”  
“In the coffee can.” Sam gestured toward the small kitchenette of the apartment.  
Dean nodded. “Rock salt?”  
“All the guns are loaded, backups in the cabinet.”  
“Anti-possession?”  
Sam pulled on the chain around his neck. “Got it, Dean.”  
“Alright. You be safe, Sammy. Call me if you need anything, okay?”  
“I will,” Sam assured him. “Promise.”  
Dean leaned down and placed a chaste kiss on the top of Sam's head. “I love you,” he whispered.  
“Love you, too,” Sam replied. “Be careful. Both of you.”  
John gave a sharp nod. “We will. Be back soon.”  
With that, they were out the door.


	2. Chapter 2

Sam stood and began pacing the floor again, clicking the TV off. It had been almost a full day since John and Dean left, and he was already starting to go stir crazy. He didn't handle being cooped up in one place for any long amount of time too well, but when Dean had called before bed the previous night to make sure that Sam had eaten dinner, he'd made him promise not to leave the house for anything. And Sam, as badly as he often wanted to, did not break his promises.  
He sighed, plopping back down in the recliner across from the window and picking up the book he'd left on the coffee table a week or so ago, beginning to flip though the pages, not really interested in reading it.  
Almost as soon as he decided to just take a nap for lack of anything more entertaining to do, the phone rang, and he jumped up as quickly as if someone had lit a stick of dynamite under his behind. “Hello?” he answered, forcing composure into his tone.  
“Hey, Sammy. How're things there?”  
Sam closed his eyes. He'd never known human contact could feel so good. Maybe the phrase “bored to death” wasn't a hyperbole, after all. “Good. Things are fine. How about you guys, you having any luck?”  
Dean sighed. “Not yet. But I told Dad if the hunt's not finished by tomorrow night, I’m leaving without him.”  
“Dean-” Sam began, but his words were lost when his brother began speaking again.  
“I told you from the beginning that I didn't like it. If he can't get this thing figured out with me, then it doesn't make much of a difference whether I’m here or not. I’m coming back soon, Sam.” Dean spoke with such conviction that Sam knew there was no use arguing. He wasn't going to listen. “Well... okay. Just try to get the case wrapped up, I guess.”  
“Don't worry, I won't slack off,” Dean assured him.   
“Better not.”  
“I won't. So, how'd you sleep last night?” Dean asked, and Sam could tell the next question was coming before the first word left Dean's mouth. “No nightmares, right?”  
“No,” Sam told him. “No nightmares.”  
“And you'd-”  
“I'd call you,” Sam finished. “I promise, I would.”  
“Good. Okay. Still stocked up on food, right? I mean, I know you eat like a fucking horse, but the kitchen was basically full when we left.”  
Sam chuckled. “Yeah. Still good.”  
“Alright. Well, Dad's talking to Bobby right now, so I’m gonna go see if he's got something. I'll keep you posted.”  
“'Kay,” Sam responded. “I'll call before bed if I haven't heard from you again by then.”  
“Talk to you soon, Sammy,” Dean said, and hung up.  
And, once again, Sam was left alone to his thoughts. He turned on the television again, but just for the noise, not actually to watch, and determined that he was hungry.  
After making his way into the kitchen and deciding on lasagna, Sam began pulling ingredients from the shelves. He was a decent cook, which was the sole reason that they kept what he would consider legitimate food around. His father would've settled for a cold turkey sandwich any day, and Dean could live on burgers, but Sam's taste was a little more complex, and he had a pretty serious affinity for Italian food. As he cooked, his mind flashed back to last Christmas Eve at Bobby's house.

 

Bobby chuckled, shoving Sam's shoulder. “Never were a traditional, were you, boy? Italian food for the holidays.”  
Sam grinned. “You don't have to eat any. Don't complain.”  
Dean chimed in, then, leaping up from the couch to join them. “Yeah, Bobby, don't complain. Any day Sammy's cooking is a good day in my book.”  
Bobby raised an eyebrow. “Think that's the first good thing I've heard you say about your brother, Dean. I'll take your word for it. Sam, better be making enough of that for all of us.”  
Sam and Dean laughed in unison, and Sam assured Bobby there'd be plenty.  
Just then, the front door opened, and John stepped through, shaking snow from his hair.  
“Hey, Dad,” Dean greeted.  
“Hey, boys. Bobby.” John's face bore a smile, which was highly unusual, and he was holding three packages in his hands. “Got you all something.”  
Sam nearly choked. “You... did?”  
John made his way into the kitchen, holding out a thin, wrapped rectangle to Sam.  
He stared blankly at John for a second before looking down at the gift in his hands.  
“Open it,” Dean prompted.  
Sam carefully stripped back the brown paper, and stilled when he saw the cover of The Catcher in the Rye. “Dad... thank you.” He stepped forward, wrapping his arms around John's waist. It was almost unbelievable to him that his father was contributing to him reading, and he saw it as a huge effort to relate.  
John briefly hugged him back, moussing his hair when he stepped away. He then held out a present to Dean. This one was smaller, both in thickness and in length.  
Dean began unwrapping it immediately, revealing a black box, which he promptly opened. When he looked inside, Dean's jaw dropped. “Is this...”  
John's grin grew even wider. “A key to the Impala.”  
Dean wrapped his father in a tight embrace, clapping him hard on the back. “God, Dad, this is so awesome.”  
John laughed, a low, hearty sound. “Glad you like it, son.” When John let go of Dean, he took a step toward Bobby and handed him the remaining gift.  
“Ah, John...” Bobby began, but when he peeled back the paper, he stopped short. What he was holding was a book. A journal, to be more exact. A journal that had once belonged to one of the greatest hunters of all time, and was filled with every original Latin ritual and piece of lore known to man. “John, how'd you get your hands on this?”  
“Something I've had laying around for a while,” John said, passing it off nonchalantly. “Thought you'd make better use of it than I would.”  
Bobby nodded his appreciation. “Well, thanks.”  
“Welcome,” John replied, taking a seat at the table. “What smells good?”  
Sam grinned, making a 'see?' face at Bobby before turning back to his father. “Lasagna,” he answered proudly.  
“Well, hell, Sam. Should've told me you were cooking. I would've been back before I left.”  
As the four of them burst into light laughter, Sam's eye caught the window, and he couldn't help but be captivated by the snow that was steadily pouring down.

 

Sam shook his head to clear his thoughts and, still smiling, slid the small pan of lasagna into the oven.  
He'd been so preoccupied with his memories that he hadn't even noticed the enormous blur, traveling at superhuman speed, fly past the window.


	3. Chapter 3

Dean flipped his phone shut, a frustrated sigh escaping his lips. He hated being away from Sam; not being able to take care of him or make sure that he was okay, even if it was only for a few days. He could call, of course, but that wasn't the same as actually laying eyes on his brother. He knew he couldn't let himself get distracted on a job, however, and Sam had just promised to check in before bed. So Dean pushed it out of his mind and crossed the motel room to his father's bed. “Bobby got anything?” he asked, sitting down beside John.  
John held up his finger, signaling for Dean to wait, and spoke into the phone again. “Yeah... Alright... Okay... Thanks, Bobby... Will do... You, too.” He hung up and turned to look at his son.   
“He's got a lead. Thought it was odd they'd share a cave, but we were about positive there were more than one. It just wasn't adding up. 'Til he found this place. It's a whole cluster of caves up on this big mountain, only a couple more towns over.”  
A couple more towns over. A couple towns further from Sam. A little longer that it would take to get back to him if something happened. Dean nodded to John, but said nothing.  
“We'll leave in the morning,” John decided. “I'm gonna go grab us some dinner. Be back in a few.”  
Dean saluted John as he exited the room and then fell back across the bed, staring at the ceiling. Only seven o'clock. That meant at least three more hours until Sam would be going to bed. He sat up again, grabbing the remote from the nightstand beside the bed and clicking on the TV. This was going to be an excruciatingly long three hours. Or possibly longer, he reminded himself. It wasn't like Sam went to bed at ten like clockwork. It could be one in the morning for all Dean knew, especially with it being summer and Sam not worrying about going to sleep at a reasonable time for school. The kid was just prone to getting tired early. Dean really didn't like the idea of Sam sleeping, completely and utterly vulnerable, alone, and nowhere near him. So he attempted not to focus on it, mindlessly flicking through TV channels and half paying attention for about twenty minutes or so, until the lock clicked and the door swung open.  
When John entered the room and sat the bags down on the table, Dean rose and began to sift through them expectantly.  
“What're you looking for?” John wearily asked.  
Pie, Dean immediately wanted to respond. But he knew it was a pretty far-fetched dream, John picking up pie. No, that was Sammy. Sammy was the one who never forgot the pie. Instead, he replied, “Nothin'. Just checkin' it out. Looks good. Always a huge yes to burgers.”  
The faintest trace of a smile worn out over the years cast itself on John's lips and he half-heartedly praised, “That's my boy.”  
Dean lifted the corner of his mouth, but didn't say anything.  
They sat and ate mostly in silence, discussing only the hunt during the rare moments in which they did speak.  
Finally, John announced, “I'm gonna hit the shower. Need to use the bathroom first?”  
Dean shook his head no and made his way back to his bed as John closed the bathroom door. Yawning, Dean rubbed his eyes with the heel of his hand. He hadn't realized how tired he was. Glancing over at the clock, he saw that it still wasn't even quite eight yet and decided he could allow himself a nap, at least. His phone would wake him up when Sam called.

 

When Dean woke, he could tell something was wrong. There was no rhyme or reason, just a gut feeling, and he'd learned throughout his life to trust his instincts, so the first thing he did was sweep his eyes over the room as best he could without moving. Nothing seemed to be out of place. He glanced to his right to see that his father was asleep in the bed across from him. He must've been out for a while, then. What time was it? Dean picked up his phone from the bedside table and flipped it open to see a bright, white 3:00 staring back at him. Wait... Dean froze. Three. Three a.m. Three a.m. and Sam hadn't called. Sam hadn't called. Attempting to calm himself, Dean took a couple of deep breaths before pulling up his recent calls and dialing Sam. He pressed the phone tightly to his ear. One ring. Two. Three. Shit. Four. Voicemail. Shit. He immediately pressed call again. Four rings. Voicemail. Shit. Jumping up and pulling on his boots, still fully clothed otherwise, Dean furiously shook John's shoulder. “Dad. Dad, wake up. Something's wrong with Sam.”  
“Wh...? Dean, what the hell're you talking about?” John asked, voice groggy with sleep.  
“Something happened to Sam, Dad, we gotta go. Come on.” Dean's tone was urgent enough that, to his surprise, John complied with no further questions.  
Until they were out of the motel and into the car five minutes later, that is, at which point, John asked, “How do you know?”  
“He told me he'd call before bed,” Dean explained. “I woke up, it was three, and he still hadn't called. Sam never forgets to call. Never. But I thought maybe he'd just accidentally fallen asleep, so I tried to call him twice, and it went through both times, but he didn't pick up.” Dean realized how frantic he sounded once he stopped talking and willed himself to relax to the best of his ability.  
John rubbed a hand over the scruff on his chin, tightening his grip on the wheel a little. “So, you're telling me you woke me up and dragged me away from a hunt in the middle of the night because Sam wouldn't answer the phone? What if he's just asleep, Dean? What if he fell asleep watching TV or reading a book and didn't hear the phone ring?”  
John's volume was raising slightly, and Dean slunk back in the seat. “I just... I just have a really bad feeling, Dad, okay?”  
John didn't respond, and the remainder of the trip back to the apartment was spent in uncomfortable silence.  
When John pulled the Impala into the driveway, he gave Dean a long, tired stare before shutting off the engine and exiting the car.  
Dean's movements were stiff as he made his way to the front door. What if he was wrong? What if Sam was fine and he'd really just fallen asleep? What would John do? Or worse, what if he was right? He shuddered, closing off his mind.  
John turned the key in the lock and pushed open the door.  
When Dean stepped inside behind his father, his stomach dropped. This scene was already wrong. All of the lights were on. Sam hadn't gone to bed intentionally.  
Dean walked slowly into the living room, afraid of what he'd find. And he was right to be. The coffee table whose usual location was beside the recliner was flipped upside down and in the middle of the room, one leg nearly ripped off. The shades had been torn from the windows. The television was on its side, the wooden stand it sat on bearing wide scratch marks.  
He swallowed and forced himself to keep moving, trying his hardest to ignore the faint smears of blood on the walls. Sam was okay. He had to be. Dean wanted to call out to him, but he knew better. Whatever had done all of this could still be inside, and there was no better way to get yourself caught. So he kept going and pushed open the bathroom door, holding his breath and then releasing it when he saw that nothing had been touched.   
He was avoiding the bedroom on purpose. It was the next closest room to him, and he just wanted to pass it up and keep looking, but he knew he couldn't. So he braced himself and turned the knob, inching open the door as his heart continuously hammered harder in his chest.  
Dean didn't see the dead, burnt body of the wendigo. He didn't see that the dresser had been overturned. He didn't see that the light fixture was busted, or that the window was broken, or that there was a hole in the wall.   
He saw Sam.  
Sam, lying on top of the sheets, still and silent and bloody and bruised and broken.  
Falling to his knees in front of the bed, Dean became paralyzed. He couldn't move. Couldn't respond to his father, who was harshly whispering his name from outside the door. Couldn't think. Couldn't breathe. And a moment later, when he finally found his voice, the only word that he could form was, “Sammy.”


	4. Chapter 4

Sam sat up with a start, and quickly discovered that any movement he made sent a shooting pain through his entire body. Carefully lowering himself back down to the bed, he began taking in his surroundings. White. Everywhere. White walls, floor, ceiling, bedding. So, he was in the hospital. Great. He glanced down at his hand, which he saw had needles secured into the back of it with medical tape. He followed the tubes with his eyes, up to a large machine where they were attached to two bags: one filled with a clear substance, one with blood. How much had he lost?  
Then an entirely new thought entered his mind. How had he gotten to the hospital in the first place? He'd been home alone. No one had been there to see what had happened. Had someone heard? Oh, god, no. Please no. Sam remembered seeing the wendigo's body crash to the floor before pulling himself onto the bed and losing consciousness. If someone had come in and seen the carcass of that thing... Sam shuddered. Maybe it had been someone who knew, his mind compromised. Maybe another hunter who had been close. Still, even if it wasn't someone he'd have to explain the dead wendigo to, that didn't mean it was someone he knew personally, which gave him a pretty large chance of being alone. Sam was a big boy. He didn't need to be attached to someone at the hip 24/7, but there was one place Sam could not stand being without anyone he knew. And that was a hospital. Once it sunk in that this was most likely the case, his mind began reeling, and he could feel himself slipping into panic-mode. He couldn't handle this. No other place in the world made him more uncomfortable, and he could not be trapped inside a hospital without his father, or especially without...  
That was when it hit him. Dean. He'd been picking up his phone to call Dean when he'd heard the monster break into the apartment. Dean knew that he'd never forget to call. Dean would've been worried. Dean would've tried to call him instead, and when he didn't pick up... Before Sam could form another coherent thought, his brother's name was ripped from his throat so forcefully that it could most likely be heard through his closed door and down the hallway.  
Instantly, Dean was there, throwing open the door and rushing to Sam's side, the doctor on his heels. He took Sam's hand, careful to avoid the IV ports. “It's okay, baby boy. I’m right here. We just went out to talk for a minute so we wouldn't wake you up, 'cause you need as much rest as you can get. It's okay.”  
“Did I... Am I okay?” Sam stuttered.  
Dean nodded. “You're gonna be fine. Just gotta take it easy for a little while. And I'll take care of you. Make sure you've got everything you need. Sound good?”  
Sam smiled tentatively. “You always do.”  
Dean grinned back at him. “'S right. I always do. Because that's my job.”  
Sam squeezed Dean's hand gratefully.  
An expression resembling confusion and then one of understanding flitted over the doctor's face. “Oh, I see.” He held up his fingers to air-quote, obviously referring to something Dean had been saying outside. “'Brothers.' It's okay, boys. You're among friends here. No need to hide anything.”  
Both Sam and Dean stared back at the doctor with puzzled looks on their faces, until Sam put two and two together and let out a small laugh. “No, no, we really are brothers.”  
The doctor's face immediately flushed, and he opened his mouth to apologize, but Dean cut him off.  
“Don't worry about it, man. Seriously, that's not the first time someone's gotten the idea that we were together. You'd be surprised how often it happens, actually. But we don't take it offensively or anything, right, Sammy?”  
Sam shook his head and smiled. “Nah. No harm done.”  
“Well, I hope you'll excuse me for being presumptuous,” the doctor said. “I'm not usually one to assume, but I just thought you seemed a bit... closer than brothers.”  
“Dean just... handles things like this. When I’m sick or hurt or something,” Sam clarified. “I can see how that could seem like something different than it is.”  
The doctor nodded. “I see. Well, if you don't mind me asking, where are your parents?”  
“Our dad's out in the lobby,” Dean explained, not bothering to mention their mother. “This isn't really his scene, and, like he said,” Dean gestured toward his brother, “I handle these things.”  
The doctor didn't press the issue, and turned toward the bed. “How're you feeling... Sam, is it?”  
Sam nodded. “Yeah. Sam. I’m okay. Little sore, but I'll live.”  
“How would you rate your pain right now on a scale of one to ten?” the doctor asked, pulling a pen from his pocket.  
Sam thought for a moment and answered, “Five, six, maybe.”  
The doctor circled something on a piece of paper he was holding on a clipboard. “You've got a high pain tolerance, Sam. You have a couple of broken ribs and some pretty serious lacerations on your thighs and stomach. Normally, people rate those kinds of injuries an eight at the lowest, and that's with more medication than we've given you.”  
Sam shrugged. “I was a clumsy kid. Got used to bruised knees and bloody elbows pretty fast, I guess.”  
Dean chuckled. “Got that right.”  
Sam shot him a bitchface that fell at about a four on the scale. “Like you weren't exactly the same way. Shutup.”   
The doctor smiled at their banter and turned back to Dean. “Well, I'll leave you to it, since he seems to be doing alright for now. I'll send someone in to check his vitals soon, and if you need anything, I’m right down the hall.”  
“Thanks,” Dean said as the doctor exited the room.  
Sam sighed and pushed himself up onto his elbows. “How much longer am I gonna have to stay in here?”  
“Not too long,” Dean assured him. “He said you might be out before tomorrow if everything stays stable.”  
Sam nodded. “Good. Hate hospitals.”  
Dean pushed Sam's hair back, running his fingers through it slowly. “I know you do.”  
“So, what's the story?” Sam asked. “What'd you tell them happened?”  
“Bear,” Dean informed him. “Said you were out in the woods and it attacked.”  
Sam gave him a half-smile. “Should've guessed.”  
“How'd it really go down, Sammy? Can you remember?”  
Sam drew in a deep breath and blew it out, cracking his knuckles. “Um... Well, I was about to call you, and then... I heard it open the door, and....” He paused. “I only remember bits and pieces, but I know we ended up in the living room, and it kept knocking stuff down because I was dodging it. Flipped the table over, I think. And then... we got into the bedroom, somehow, and I think it had already scratched my legs by that point, because it was kind of hard to walk, but I don't actually remember that happening. And then I remembered the flare gun you put in the top dresser drawer, and it got me in the stomach while I was pulling that out, but then I shot it, and it went down, and I did, too, and then I pulled myself up on the bed, and I passed out. Which, now that I think about it, was probably from blood loss.”  
Dean looked down, shaking his head. “I'm so sorry, baby boy. I never should've left you alone.”  
Sam placed his hand on Dean's thigh, because it was the furthest he could reach with the tubes and all. “Do that. Please. It wasn't your fault.”  
Dean didn't argue, but he obviously didn't agree. “Yeah, well. I'm just glad you're okay.”  
Sam let out a hard laugh. “Me, too.”  
“So, were you telling the truth when the doctor asked how bad you were hurting, or is it worse?”  
Sam scrunched up his face in thought for a moment. “No. It's not too bad. Getting a little bit worse now, but I think that's just because I’m starting to get tired again.”  
“Wanna go back to sleep?” Dean asked softly.  
“I think... Yeah,” Sam replied, and then closed his hand into a fist, encasing the fabric around the edge of Dean's jacket. “But, could you just... not leave?”  
Dean leaned forward and placed a gentle kiss on Sam's forehead. “Of course. I’m not going anywhere. I'll be right here when you wake up, okay? I promise.”  
Sam smiled contentedly and drifted off to sleep, still holding onto Dean.


	5. Chapter 5

When Dean woke, Sam was sweating and whimpering and clinging to him like he was freezing to death. Dean gently stroked his arm to rouse him, afraid that he was having a nightmare. “Sammy. Come on, baby boy, wake up for me.”  
Sam gasped and his eyes fluttered open.  
“You okay?” Dean asked. “Did you have a bad dream?”  
Sam shook his head no and leaned against Dean's chest. “Don't feel good, De.”  
Dean placed his hand on Sam's cheek, knowing before he touched it that it would be burning hot. This was partly because he could feel the heat through his shirt, and partly because Sam had stopped calling him 'De' when he was about six years old unless something was very, very wrong. For instance, a high fever. Shit. How're your cuts?” Dean asked, masking the fear that wanted to seep into his voice.  
“My stomach's fine, and my right leg's okay, too, but the left one...” Sam trailed off.  
“Can I look at it? I won't touch it, just wanna see,” Dean promised.  
Sam nodded reluctantly and allowed Dean to pull the blankets down along with his sweat pants.  
When Dean saw Sam's leg, he wanted to punch something. The gauze that had been spread tightly over the gashes and taped down was loose, so much so in some places that it had actually come off and begun to peel back, revealing angry, shiny, swollen, bright red lacerations that were leaking blood and pus. Dean clenched his hands into fists, but forced himself to remain outwardly calm for his brother's sake. “It's not that bad,” he lied. “I really need to change your bandages, though.”  
Sam looked down at him with large, scared eyes.  
Dean's heart swelled with sympathy. “Would you rather do it?” he asked, thinking the pain may be easier for Sam to bear if he had control, and remembering that he had, in fact, just told Sam he wouldn't touch it.  
But Sam frowned. “No. Want you to.”  
“Okay,” Dean agreed, patting Sam's shoulder. “Be right back.” He pushed himself up from Sam's bed, the one they'd been sharing since two days ago when Sam had come home from the hospital, and made his way down the hall to the bathroom to grab the medical supplies needed to patch up Sam's leg. Honestly, the wounds needed re-stitching. At least three stitches that Dean had seen at a half-second's glance had come loose because of the swelling. There was no questioning whether it was badly infected. The only question, which Dean wasn't sure he could handle the answer to, was how far the infection had progressed. Far enough to give Sam a fever, he reminded himself. After wetting a wash cloth with warm water, he quickly pulled gauze, medical tape, and antibiotic cream from the top shelf of the medicine cabinet, and then decided he may as well bring along a thermometer.  
When he reached the bedroom again, Sam was curled up on his side, his body wracked with tremors. “Whoa, hey, Sammy. What's the matter?” Dean asked, rushing to the bed and sitting down.  
“C-cold,” Sam managed.  
Dean gently pushed Sam onto his back. “Let's get this over with and then we'll get the blankets back on, okay?”  
Sam just nodded.  
Dean put his right hand, palm up, on the bed and waited for Sam to take it before he began. “Okay, baby boy. This is gonna hurt pretty bad, alright? But you can squeeze my hand until you break my fingers if you need to, just try to stay as still as you can for me.”  
Sam's breathing picked up, and he tightened his grip on Dean's hand.  
Dean reached down and grasped a piece of loose tape between his left thumb and forefinger, and began to pull it back as slowly and carefully as he could.  
Sam gasped, but didn't move.  
“I know,” Dean murmured. “I'm sorry.”   
Once the old bandage was removed, Dean picked up the wash cloth from the other side of the bed. “I'm actually gonna have to touch it now. And I’m not gonna sugar coat the situation, it'll hurt like a bitch. 'Bout a million times worse than it did when I was just pulling around the edges. But Dad's not home, remember? So you don't have to worry about waking him up. If you need to scream, scream. Just try not to move. I know it's hard, but you have to try. It'll just hurt worse if you do.”  
Sam's fingers grew even tighter around Dean's hand, and Dean knew he was preparing himself.  
When the water first grazed Sam's leg, he whimpered. “De...”  
“I know, baby boy,” Dean soothed. “I'll make it as quick as I can, okay? I’m sorry.” He washed off the cuts with the least amount of pressure he could possibly apply, but he could tell how badly it was hurting Sam.  
Sam was silent. That was never a good sign. Not with him. When Sam was quiet and in pain, it was because he was hurting so badly that if he tried to speak he would either throw up or cry. And Dean knew Sam was currently past the point of caring whether he was sobbing like a four year old, so... “D-Dean, I’m... Fuck...”  
Right on cue. Dean picked up the small trash can from the side of the bed and handed it to Sam.  
Sam clenched his teeth together and began taking in quick, short breaths through his nose, sitting up and rocking back and forth over the trash can.  
Dean placed the now relatively cool cloth, along with his hand, on the back of Sam's neck. He guessed that this was probably a mixture of the fever, the infection, and the pain, but whatever the reason, nothing but getting it out would make Sam feel any better. “Don't fight it, baby boy. Just get it over with. I’m right here.” Sam hated this more than anything in the world, and Dean hated that there was nothing he could do to make it any better. All he could do was-  
His train of thought was interrupted when Sam started gagging and coughing and moaning, “Oh, god, I don't wanna...”  
Dean sighed. This was going to be a long night. “I know you don't. But you need to, Sammy. Come on.” He removed his hand from Sam's neck and began soothingly running it up and down his back.  
Sam moaned again before finally giving in and emptying the contents of his stomach into the bottom of the bin.  
“It's okay,” Dean soothed. “I've got you.”  
When Sam lifted his head, Dean could see that his face was streaked with tears, and his bottom lip was quivering.  
“Aw, Sammy...” Dean pulled Sam against his chest, stroking his hair. “Don't cry. You're okay. Don't cry.”  
Sam sniffed. “'M sorry. Just hate it.”  
Dean gingerly kissed the top of Sam's head. “I know you do. Nothing to apologize for. I just don't want you to cry 'cause you'll make yourself sick again.”  
Sam sighed and turned so that his nose was resting in the crook of Dean's neck. “'S it infected? You can tell me.”  
Dean didn't respond right away, but finally answered, “Yeah. It is. But I’m gonna take care of it, okay? I won't let it get so bad they have to chop your leg off or anything.”  
Sam let out a small laugh and shook his head against Dean's shoulder. “Shut up.”  
Dean smiled and brought his fingers up to stroke Sam's cheek. “I'm just kiddin'. Seriously, though, we'll get you fixed up.”  
“Can I...” Sam paused to yawn, and then continued, “leave the bandages off to let it air out, just while I’m asleep?”  
Dean pursed his lips, thinking, and said, “Let's put some antibiotic back on it right now, and if it looks a little better in the morning, you can leave it open for a while. How's that sound?”  
Sam nodded his assent.  
“Gonna throw up anymore?” Dean asked, tilting Sam's head back to look at him.  
“Don't think so,” Sam told him. “It just... really hurt. Made me sick.”  
“I understand,” Dean assured him. “I'm gonna go clean this up,” he said, maneuvering himself around Sam to pick up the garbage can, “and then I'll come back and take your temperature.”  
Sam looked confused. “I have a fever?”  
“Yeah, kiddo,” Dean informed him. “You do. But I gotta see how high.”  
“Hm. 'Kay.”  
“Can you really not tell?” Dean asked, standing up.  
“Nope. Not really. It's 'cause of my leg, though, right?”  
Dean chewed on the inside of his lip. “Most likely, yeah.”  
“And that means it's bad. Not the fever, I mean, the infection,” Sam clarified, lying back down.  
“You've had worse,” Dean told him. Which was true; he had. Only once, but he had. And he'd been younger then, meaning it would've hit him harder. If he'd made it through then, he would now.  
“Guess I'll live, then,” Sam decided, echoing Dean's thoughts.  
Dean ruffled his hair before lifting the trash can from the bed and exiting the room.  
Sam's eyes traveled down Dean's strong back as he left, and rested for a moment on the firm swell of his ass through his sweat pants. Not bad. Not bad at all. Wait... What the hell? He blinked and shook his head. That fever must be pretty serious.  
He blew out a short breath and began drumming his fingers on the taught muscles of his stomach. His leg felt like it was on fire, and, now that Dean had mentioned it, it made sense that he had a fever. He could feel the sweat beading on his skin, but it seemed like his room was about twenty below. And, damn, he just wanted Dean to hold him. Always felt like a furnace. Smelled good, too, like leather and whiskey, even if he hadn't had any, and some underlying tone of just Dean. And those arms wrapped around him, so strong, and so fucking huge, pressing him against that rock hard chest... Okay, seriously, where the fuck was this coming from?  
Before Sam had a chance to over-analyze it, Dean was back in the room. “Alright, squirt. Temperature time.”  
Sam rolled his eyes grimaced at the nickname, but pushed himself up on his elbows and held open his mouth.  
Dean chuckled, noting that Sam turned back into a child every time he was sick. He picked up the thermometer from the table where he'd placed it before and clicked it on, placing it into Sam's mouth. “Now, be patient, and don't try to talk until it's done, or you'll knock it out of your mouth with that gigantic tongue of yours.” Like you do every time I have to take your temperature.   
Sam glared, but kept his mouth shut until the thermometer beeped.  
Dean pulled it from between his lips and cocked an eyebrow at the numbers on the small screen. “100.5. Not as bad as I thought.”  
Sam swallowed. 100.5. Okay, so, not that high, but still... it could be high enough to cause unusual thoughts, right? ...Right?  
Dean's gaze was turned back to him, now. “Sammy?”  
“Hm?” Sam asked, snapping out of his daze.  
“You wanna let me patch you up so we can go back to sleep?”  
Sam stilled. “I don't... I don't know if I can handle it.”  
Dean ran his hands over his face; a tired gesture. “If it hurts too much you can tell me and I'll stop, 'kay?”  
Sam drew in a shaky breath. “Okay.”  
Dean picked up the gauze, already pre-cut into a large patch, and applied a generous amount of antibiotic cream to it, laying it down as gently as he could over Sam's shredded skin.  
Sam scrunched up his face in what looked more like discomfort than pain. “'S cold,” he explained.  
“Sorry,” Dean muttered, picking up the medical tape and ripping off four long strips with his teeth. “Ready?” he asked.  
“Yeah,” Sam whispered.  
Dean knew just as well as Sam did that it was a lie, but it was better to get it over as quickly as possible than draw the process out, so Dean lowered his hands and began applying the tape.  
Sam breathed in sharply through his teeth. “God dammit.”  
Dean stopped for a moment, knowing Sam probably wouldn't be able to handle it all at once, and waited for the okay to put on the rest.  
After thirty seconds or so, Sam gave a sharp nod. “Sorry. Go ahead.”  
“Don't apologize,” Dean said. “It hurts. I know.” He laid down the remaining three pieces of tape and smoothed the edges down carefully with his thumb so they'd stick to Sam's skin.  
There were tears leaking from the corners of Sam's eyes and falling soundlessly onto his pillow when Dean finished, but he'd managed to keep himself calm for the most part. “Done?” he asked softly.  
Dean wiped the tears away and positioned himself back on his right side, the way he'd been lying before he'd woken up. “Yeah, baby boy. I’m done. You did so good.”  
The corner of Sam's mouth turned up at the praise. “We going to sleep now?” he asked, already snuggled against Dean.  
Dean pulled up the blankets and wrapped an arm protectively around Sam's chest before yawning loudly. “Sure as hell are. G'night, Sammy.”  
“Night.”  
Dean was completely relaxed and had just begun to doze off when...  
“Dean?”  
Oh, hell. “What, Sam?”  
“Help me walk to the bathroom? I forgot to go brush my teeth after I got sick, and I just feel really gross now.”  
Dean internally sighed. Just as he'd thought, this was going to be a long night.


	6. Chapter 6

The next morning, Sam awoke to the smell of bacon. Oh, hell, yes. “Dean?”  
A moment later, Dean appeared in the doorway, hair sticking up in wet patches, wearing nothing but jeans slung low on his hips. There was still water glistening on his bare chest from the shower that he'd apparently very recently gotten out of. “Mornin', sunshine.”  
Sam didn't smell bacon anymore. Just leather and whiskey and shampoo, and why the hell was he so damn hard all of a sudden? He shifted uncomfortably and cleared his throat, willing his erection away. Morning wood. 'S'all it is. Just didn't notice. “You, uh... You making breakfast?”  
Dean shook his fingers through his hair, visibly swinging small droplets of water into the air around him. “Yup. Figured you'd be pretty hungry after last night. 'S long as you're feeling better, anyway.”  
“I am,” Sam confirmed.  
“How's the leg?” Dean asked, leaning against the door frame.   
“Hurts,” Sam admitted. “Doesn't feel like it's burning anymore, though.”  
Dean nodded in approval. “Good. You still wanna take the gauze off?”  
Sam thought for a moment about the conversation they'd had last night in which Dean had agreed that he could take it off in the morning if the wound was looking a little better, but shook his head no. “I'm kind of afraid to mess with it. Don't want it to start hurting worse again. We can do it later.”  
“Sounds good,” Dean told him. “So, Dad called. I told him about your leg and how bad it got, and he said he'd come home if we needed him to, but that if we didn't, he'd still be gone a few more days. I told him I'd keep an eye on it, but I was sure it'd be fine, and if it got any worse I'd just take you back to the hospital.” Dean saw Sam flinch at the mention of the word, but continued. “Anyway, he's dead set on wiping out every wendigo up on that mountain, especially after what that one did to you, and Bobby got off that succubus case just in time to help him out. So you think we can hold down the fort 'til he gets back?”  
A small grin broke out over Sam's face, and he said, “As long as you keep cooking bacon.”  
“I'll handle breakfast if you do dinner,” Dean compromised.  
“And what about lunch?” Sam questioned, sitting up and slowly swinging his legs over the edge of the bed, attempting to ignore the dull ache the movement caused in his left thigh. Always worse after he hadn't been active for a few hours. Stiff.  
Dean walked over to Sam's left side and wrapped an arm around his waist, helping him stand. “We'll alternate,” he responded. “Or just go out.”  
Sam pretended to toss the idea around for a moment as he cautiously shifted his weight to his right foot. “Hm. Fair enough.”  
Dean helped Sam into the kitchen and made sure he was comfortably seated, leg resting on a chair in front of him, before tending to the bacon on the stove again.  
“Hey.”  
Turning back around to his brother and batting his eyelashes flirtatiously, Dean drawled, “Hey, yourself, handsome.”  
That earned him a bitchface from Sam, who picked up a loose piece of paper that happened to be lying on the table, crumpled it up, and promptly threw it at his head. “You're so weird.”  
Dean shrugged. “Takes one to know one, Sammy. But, seriously, what'd you want?”  
“I was gonna ask if you were making biscuits,” Sam said, leaning back against the chair.  
Dean raised his eyebrows and let out a hard laugh. “Seriously? What's my alternative, you chopping my 'nads off in my sleep? 'Course I’m making biscuits.”  
Sam smiled, satisfied, and then asked, “Gravy, too, right?”  
“Do you think I forgot who you were overnight, Sam?”  
Sam held his hands up defensively. “Sorry. Just asking. So, um... I kind of need to get cleaned up after breakfast. I haven't had a shower since before I went to the hospital, and I feel pretty disgusting. But I don't think I can...”  
Dean understood before Sam could finish his sentence. “Yeah, Sammy. I'll help you.”  
Sam gratefully thanked him and then remembered that he'd used up the last of his brown sugar and vanilla shampoo. “How much money did Dad leave?” he asked. “Just enough for essentials?”  
“I might be able to swing a little extra,” Dean told him. “Why?”  
“I just realized I don't have any of my shampoo left. I know it seems kinda lame to worry about it, but I'd just like to smell like myself. You know?”  
Dean smiled reassuringly. “I understand. So, uh, why don't you take a couple bucks and walk down to the store. Grab some.”  
Sam's lips parted slightly, but no sound came out, and he closed his mouth again without speaking.  
“What?” Dean asked, laying on the oblivious act very thickly. “It's, like, a block away, Sam. I know you're lazy, but Jeez.”  
“Dean, I... My...” Sam sputtered.  
Dean just stared at him for another long moment before breaking into light laughter. “I'm just kidding, baby boy. I wouldn't let you walk that far on that leg if you tried. I'll go. You finish up breakfast so we can eat when I get back, and then we'll get you washed up. Sound like a plan?”  
Sam breathed an audible sigh of relief. “Yeah. Deal.”  
Dean rolled his eyes, picking up a gray shirt he'd thrown over the back of a chair and questioning whether it was clean before resolving that he didn't care and pulling it over his head, deciding he'd change later if it wasn't. “I'm not that heartless, dude. Be back in a few, 'kay?”  
Sam nodded his head once and carefully stood to take Dean's place at the stove.  
As he made his way through the small apartment, Dean couldn't help but think how much he disliked the idea of leaving Sam alone, even just for a couple of moments. What if he got sick again? Or fell, maybe, and hurt his leg even worse? Sam was a clumsy kid. It wasn't a far-fetched thought. He would just bring Sam along, but he'd been serious when he'd said he wouldn't let him walk that far. Not that it was far at all, really. Just that virtually everything was currently too far for Sam. God, this would be so much easier if he just had the...   
When Dean reached the front door and pulled it open, he stopped dead in his tracks. There, parked in the driveway, almost glowing from the warm, summer sun, sat the Impala. Dean pulled his phone out of his pocket, immediately dialing his father's number.  
On the third ring, John picked up. “Dean?”  
“Dad, you rock!” Dean exclaimed.  
John's low chuckle indicated that he had a pretty good idea of what his eldest son was so ecstatic about. “You're welcome. I expected you to notice sooner.”  
“Haven't left the house until now,” Dean explained. “The princess needed shampoo.”  
“Well,” John responded, ignoring the princess quip, “figured you'd need it to haul Sammy around, so I took a cab here.”  
“Seriously, Dad, you're the best,” Dean mused. “Thanks. So much. We'll see you when you get home, okay?”  
“You boys be safe,” John said, paternal concern sweeping through his voice, before hanging up the phone.  
Sam, having heard Dean's end of the conversation, limped through the house to his brother. “What?”  
Dean pointed out the door. “That.”  
Sam's jaw dropped slightly. “He left you the car?”  
Dean grinned broadly. “That's right. So, you wanna come with me now?”  
“Why don't I just stay here and finish breakfast like we said?” Sam asked. “I just... I was serious when I said I felt gross, and I know it doesn't really matter, but I'd rather not go out in public until I look a little less like death warmed over.”  
Dean's disapproval was evident on his face, but he shrugged it off. “Yeah, okay. Just...”  
Sam placed a hand on Dean's cheek without really meaning to, but didn't remove it when he spoke. “Dean. I'll be fine. You can leave for five minutes.”  
Dean placed his hand over Sam's and brought it down, entwining their fingers. “I know you will. I just worry about you.”  
Sam would've responded, really, if he didn't suddenly have to concentrate on how interested his dick was in Dean's big, strong hand wrapped around his own.  
“Sammy?”  
He blinked, attempting to clear his head, and met Dean's eyes. “I know you're worried. But nothing's gonna happen. 'Kay? Now, go on. And hurry up. I’m hungry.” Or I can't handle you touching me anymore. Whatever.  
Dean let go of Sam's hand and turned back toward the open door, quickly pulling his keys from a hook on the wall. “Okay, okay, I’m going.”  
“Good,” Sam called, and then sighed and shook his head once Dean was gone, shuffling back into the kitchen and going through the second-nature motions of checking both the bacon and biscuits, which were nearly done. But he wasn't focused on them. No. All he was focused on was figuring out what the fuck was wrong with him. Had the wendigo caused him to hit his head and knock something loose? This was his brother. His brother. And as hard as he tried to deny it... the feelings were there. But there had to be some kind of explanation, right? It would go away. It was an effect of one of the trillion pain meds they'd given him at the hospital and told him to take every day messing with his mind. Or the lack of sleep he'd been getting lately. Or maybe just the fact that he had a bunch of hormones kicking in all at once and Dean was basically the only person around him, ever. Yeah. That was it. Definitely. Or not. Whatever.

*~*~*  
When Dean returned no less than ten minutes after he'd left and the house appeared empty, his heartbeat grew about a thousand times faster. “Sam?”  
Nothing.  
“Sam?”  
Still, nothing.  
“Sammy?!”  
This time, Sam pushed open the bathroom door and stepped out into the hall. “What, Dean? Can I not take a piss?”  
Dean felt his stomach do a flip-flop. “I... Sorry. Sorry.”  
Sam, noticing that Dean hadn't even attempted a sarcastic remark, realized just how afraid his brother actually was. “Hey,” he began, meeting Dean in the dining room, “It's okay. I’m fine, see? I’m right here. Sorry I scared you.”  
To Sam's surprise, Dean pulled him into a tight hug and buried his face in his hair.  
Sam wrapped one arm around Dean's waist, gently stroking his back with the other. “Dean... are you okay?”  
After a few more seconds, Dean backed off. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m good. I’m sorry, man, I just... I walked in, and I couldn't see you, and I just kind of flashed back to...” He stopped, shuddering.  
Sam placed a hand on his shoulder. “You don't have to explain. I get it. That's PTSD kicking in. No big deal. Should've expected it. You saw... Well, you saw a lot.”  
Dean let out a slow, even breath and stared at his feet.  
“So,” Sam started, attempting a change in conversation, “everything's done if you wanna eat, except...”  
A small smile ghosted over Dean's lips as he finished, “Except you can't make gravy. Yeah. I'll do it.”  
The boys made their way back to the kitchen, and they talked as Dean finished breakfast, and they talked more as they ate, mostly about the hunt their father was on and how long they estimated he'd be gone, and the more Dean talked, the more attention Sam paid to his lips, and, fuck, they were huge, and why had he never noticed before? Wait, why should he have noticed his brother's lips? Shit.  
Dean stood and turned, breaking Sam's eyes from their fixated post and placing all of the dishes they'd just been using into the sink. “Alright, Sam. You ready to get cleaned up?”  
Sam could nearly feel the warm water rushing over his body and enthusiastically responded, “God, yes. Let's go.”  
Dean chuckled and followed Sam slowly to the bathroom, carrying the bottle of shampoo in his right hand and trying hard not to think about what the scent had done to him the moment he'd picked it up from the shelf.


	7. Chapter 7

“Ah, hell, Sam. I’m gonna get soaked.”  
Sam turned his head toward Dean while the rest of his body remained under the warm spray of the shower. “Sorry. You know, honestly, I can probably handle this if you wanna-”  
Dean sighed. “Sam.”  
“No, seriously, just leave the door open so I can yell if I need-”  
“Sammy, shut up. It's hurting worse again. I can tell, so don't even try to say it's not. And we both know you can't stand on it much longer. You've been up all morning. You've got plastic all over your stomach and both your legs, and you've gotta try to keep it from getting any water in. Just lemme help you.”  
“You really are gonna get wet, though,” Sam pointed out, but didn't argue any of the points Dean had just made.  
Dean shrugged and began shucking off his clothes. “'Kay, well, won't matter much if I’m naked, will it? Be easier if I’m actually in the shower with you, anyway.”  
No. No, no, no. Sam swallowed. “Okay.”  
Dean stepped into the shower behind him and leaned against the wall.  
Sam, still facing away from his brother, didn't move.  
“Do your thing, man,” Dean encouraged. “I'll be here if you need me.”  
But Sam remained immobile.   
“Sammy. You alright?”  
“Dean, I...” Sam paused. “Could you just...”  
Dean placed his hand on Sam's shoulder, catching him off guard and spinning him around. “Could I just what?”   
Sam's entire face flushed bright red, and he attempted to turn away again, but Dean caught his arm and held him in place.   
What the hell was wrong with- Oh. Oh. “Hey. Look at me, baby boy,” Dean coaxed upon catching sight of Sam's problem. “Is that all? That's no big deal. See?” He placed his hand on the back of Sam's head and tilted it down slightly so that Sam's gaze fell on his cock. “Me, too. Just happens sometimes.”  
Sam let out what sounded a bit like a strangled groan. “I shouldn't... God dammit, Dean, I shouldn't be hard while I’m in the shower with my brother.”  
The corner of Dean's mouth turned up. “Well, I’m hard while I’m in the shower with my brother, too. So what does that say about me?”  
Sam didn't respond.  
“Exactly. It doesn't mean anything. Now, come on. Get cleaned up.”  
Sam stood under the water for a while, just allowing it to wash over him, until his weight became too much for his leg to bear.  
“Hurt?” Dean asked, having been carefully monitoring Sam's facial expressions.  
Sam just nodded.  
“Okay. Can you sit down?”  
Sam held onto the edges of the tub and lowered himself into a seated position, closing his eyes. God, being off that leg felt awesome. And so did... He opened his eyes and looked up to find Dean lathering shampoo into his hair. “Dude. You don't have to do that. I can wash my own hair. Nothing's wrong with my arms.”  
But Dean shook his head. “'S'okay. Don't mind.”  
Sam raised an eyebrow, but relaxed into his brother's hands. “You don't?”  
“Nah. Makes me think of when you were little and I had to – tilt your head back – I had to do this all the time.”  
A soft smile formed on Sam's lips as he complied to Dean's command. “I remember that.”  
Without ever verbally agreeing on it, Dean moved from washing Sam's hair to his body, soaping up the wash cloth that Sam had hung over the faucet and swirling it around on his back. “Kinda miss it sometimes,” he mumbled. “Takin' care of you like that.”  
“You take care of me every day,” Sam said softly. “Just in different ways now.”  
Dean chuckled. “Guess I kinda do, huh? Well, I'll always be your big brother, Sammy. I’m always gonna take care of you.” He continued lathering Sam's body with soap, careful to avoid the plastic wrapped over the wounds on both his stomach and legs, and if he noticed Sam's dick jump as he ghosted the cloth over the insides of his thighs, he kept it to himself. And if his own stiffened a little more in response, well... it just didn't. It totally, totally didn't. Except that it did.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my god, guys, I am SO sorry it's taken me so long to update. I've been more busy in the past two weeks than I've ever been in my entire life. This chapter definitely isn't my greatest work, and I may update it later, but I just wanted to get something posted. Again, I am so, so, so, so, SO sorry. Thank you so much for reading. I love you all.<3

“Dude. Scoot over.”  
Dean, who was seated in the large recliner across from the television, wordlessly shifted so that Sam could fit beside him.  
Sam sat down and wrapped his arm around Dean's stomach, leaning his head against Dean's chest.   
“You okay?” Dean asked, running his fingers through Sam's hair. Generally, when Sam was a bit excessively clingy, something was off. And there was a perfectly fine, completely empty couch adjacent to the chair that they were crammed into. Not that Dean minded. It was just an observation. “Did you take your pain meds?”  
Sam nodded. “They haven't kicked in yet, though.”  
Dean leaned down, pressing his lips to the top of Sam's head. “I'm sorry, baby boy.”  
Sam shrugged. “It's okay. Could be worse. Has Dad called since this morning?”  
“Nope,” Dean responded, re-situating himself so that Sam was more in his lap than beside him.  
He heard Sam sigh contentedly before speaking again. “Should we check in before we go to bed?”  
“He told me he'd call when he could. I'll just keep the phone up so I can hear it in case he's busy until after we're asleep. Are you ready for bed already?” It was just nine, meaning they'd only been up about twelve hours, and they hadn't really done much all day, but it hadn't been too difficult to wear Sam out lately. Just taking a shower had left him so drained that he'd been hesitant to go out for lunch a full three hours later.  
“We don't have to,” Sam answered with a yawn.  
Dean rolled his eyes. “Yeah. You're gonna last a whole five minutes.”  
“Well...” Sam paused, his voice sleepy and low. “You don't have to come with me. It's early. I can go to bed, and if I wake up and I need you, I'll let you know.”  
Dean locked his arms around Sam's torso in protest. “It takes you forever to fall asleep by yourself. I don't mind. Not like I really have anything better to do.”  
“How about we stay here, and you can keep watching TV, and if I fall asleep, I just fall asleep?” Sam compromised.  
Dean chuckled. “Alright, Sammy. If that's what you wanna do.”  
Sam said nothing, just snuggled closer against Dean's chest.  
Dean pressed against the recliner and it followed suit, angling itself downward and allowing Dean to lie back with Sam practically on top of him.  
Just as Dean had predicted, Sam was out within the next five to ten minutes, and he felt a smile tug at the edges of his lips. When Sam slept, he looked about five years younger, all of the creases of worry – much too old for his fourteen years – melting away and leaving his features smooth and calm. Dean couldn't help himself from leaning down and gently kissing Sam's cheek.   
When Dean's lips made contact with his skin, Sam stirred, but remained asleep.  
Not much time had passed at all, but Dean was beginning to grow tired, and clicked the power button on the remote to turn off the television. He'd planned to pick Sam up and carry him to bed, but froze as soon as he set the remote back down on the arm of the chair.  
Sam was humping his thigh.  
Sam. Was humping his thigh.  
And it was getting him hard.  
He sighed almost exasperatedly and whispered to himself, “God, I’m going to hell.” But that didn't seem to matter too much to his hand, which had moved, un-permitted, to palm his cock through his sweats. He remained in time with his brother's steady rhythm for at least a good sixty seconds, until... Oh, fuck. Ohfuckohfuckohfuck. No.  
Sam's eyes flashed open.  
“Sammy, I...” Dean trailed off, searching Sam's face for signs of confusion, or, if he'd already figured out what was going on, disgust or shock, but he didn't find any of that. Instead, what he read in Sam's expression was... hunger.  
Sam wordlessly removed Dean's hand from his crotch and placed it on his own, beginning to move against it, never losing speed, keeping his eyes locked on Dean's the entire time.  
Dean drew in a sharp breath, but didn't stop Sam from guiding his hand in strong (so Sammy likes it rough), vertical strokes.   
Almost as quickly as he'd begun, though, Sam ceased and let go of Dean's hand, casting his eyes downward.  
“Hey, baby boy,” Dean murmured. “What is it? Look at me.”  
Sam glanced up through his lashes, sniffling once and then biting his lip.  
“Are you...” Dean stopped for a moment to assess the situation and then brushed the backs of his fingers over Sam's arm. “Sammy, are you crying?”  
Sam sniffled again before responding, “Sorry. I’m sorry. I just... What the fuck is wrong with me, Dean? What kind of sick freak wants his brother to touch him?”  
Dean didn't immediately respond with words. Instead, he placed his hand on the back of Sam's head to hold him still and pressed their lips together as gently as possible before whispering, “I do.”  
Sam completely broke down at that, burying his face in the crease of Dean's neck and choking out between sobs, “I was... so... scared. I thought... I wasn't thinking when I did it, I was just feeling, and then after, I thought... I thought you'd never even be able to look at me again. I thought... there was no way you could love someone so... messed up.”  
Dean wrapped his arms around Sam's waist and leaned forward, allowing the chair to fold back up so that Sam was sitting on his lap. “Nothing in this world could ever keep me from loving you. Nothing. Okay? Never say that. And if you're messed up, then so am I. Because I want you, too, Sam. All of you.”  
Sam was silent for a moment, and Dean almost didn't hear him when he finally asked, “Can I... kiss you again?”  
“You can do anything you want,” was Dean's simple response. And it was the truth. Anything for Sam, always.  
So Sam took in a deep, shaky breath and leaned forward, catching Dean's mouth with his own, slightly open, completely vulnerable, and nothing had ever felt so good.  
Dean responded just as enthusiastically, lips reacting with Sam's like they were made just for him (Jesus, they probably were) and it wasn't sloppy or rushed or wrong in any way because it was Sammy, and whether he'd ever kissed anyone before or not, he was the best Dean had ever experienced, and he tasted like sugar and sunlight and pure Sam, and Dean couldn't stop a tear from trickling down his cheek.  
And for the first time in either of their lives, the Winchester boys learned what it felt like to truly be home.


	9. Chapter 9

When Dean woke, he could tell immediately that it was very early in the morning and that he hadn't been asleep for nearly long enough. He and Sam had been awake until nearly four a.m. just discussing and sorting through all of the feelings between them that had finally allowed themselves to surface. Not much else had happened, really, just the occasional kiss during conversation, but nothing that got too heated even though the whole thing had started with Dean practically jacking Sam off.  
Before Dean could finish that thought, Sam stretched and scooted back, pressing the curve of his ass directly into Dean's crotch.  
Dean let out a surprisingly loud, involuntary moan and then clapped his hand over his mouth in attempt to keep from waking his brother.  
Too late. Sam chuckled sleepily and mumbled something incomprehensible, pressing the back of his head against Dean's chest.  
“What?”  
Sam rolled over to face Dean, placing a small kiss on his neck. “I said that was hot.”  
“D'jou do that on purpose?” Dean asked, wrapping his arm around Sam and splaying his hand across his back.  
“Did I do what on purpose?”  
“You think I just decided I'd sound like a porn star at – what is it, six, seven o'clock? – for shits and giggles? Your ass, Sam. You just crotch-raped me.”  
“'S not rape if you like it.”  
“What?”  
“What?”  
“Sammy.”  
“No, I didn't do it on purpose. I was asleep. You woke me up. But...” Sam stopped, trailing his fingers down Dean's side and resting his hand on his hip. “What if I had done it on purpose?”  
Dean clenched his teeth to keep from making another obscene sound (When the hell had he gotten so sexually vocal?) because just the thought of Sam initiating something like that was enough to get him going, and placed his hand over Sam's, locking their fingers together. “Then... I guess you would've done it on purpose.”  
“So... that would've been okay with you?” Sam asked timidly, breaking eye contact.   
“Baby boy,” Dean whispered, bringing up his hand to stroke Sam's cheek with his thumb, “anything you do is okay with me. Anything you want, I promise, I want it, too.”'  
“Remember when... last night, you... you said you wanted me to touch you? Is that... I mean, would...”   
Sam getting all flustered was definitely on the list of top five most adorably sexy things Dean had ever seen in his life, and he couldn't stifle a small laugh before responding, “Yeah, I meant that. Do you want to?”  
Sam swallowed, and when he spoke, his voice shook. “Can I?”  
In response, Dean took Sam's hand and guided it downward, placing it on the inside of his thigh.  
Sam's breath hitched, and he grasped Dean's leg more tightly. “De, I...”  
“Sammy...” Dean, recognizing the actions as signs of nervousness, softly kissed the top Sam's head, and then brought his fingers to where his lips had just been, stroking Sam's messy, chestnut hair. “You don't have to. You don't feel like you have to, right? Because-”  
Sam cut Dean off with his lips, sweeping his tongue slowly along the entrance to his brother's mouth and causing him to gasp. “I want to,” Sam assured, eyes gleaming with truth. “God, Dean, you have no idea how much I want to. I just... I don't...”  
Dean understood, now, without Sam finishing his sentence. He obviously did want to, he just didn't know how. “'S okay, baby boy. You've gotten yourself off before, right?”  
Sam blushed and bit his lip, suddenly becoming very interested in the pattern on the thin blanket wrapped around his waist. “Yeah.”  
Dean grinned. “Don't be embarrassed. We all do it. Kind of a sexy mental image, to be honest. Anyway, that's all you have to do.”  
“But...” Sam sighed. “What if you don't like it the same way I do?”  
“Believe me, anything you do, I'll like.”  
Sam remained still and silent for a moment and then, almost painfully slowly, slid his hand over to cover Dean's already hard cock. His eyes went wide as his fingers moved, more assessing than looking for any type of reaction. “'S... big.”  
Dean chuckled, splaying his legs a little wider because even if it wasn't direct contact or even really meant to have much of an effect on him yet, Sammy touching him felt fucking good, and teased, “Sammy the Size Queen.”  
The bitchface Sam shot him was only half-hearted, and it didn't last long before he returned to the task at hand. Sliding two fingers into the waistband of Dean's sweatpants, Sam tugged them down to his knees and then repeated the action with his underwear.  
Dean was visibly shaking, and there was nothing that he could do to stop it, so he didn't try, just let Sam see how his actions were making him feel.  
Sam didn't touch Dean right away, just ran his hands up and down his legs for a few moments and then up his torso and over his abs, stopping at his nipples and experimentally running his thumb over one.  
Dean felt his body unintentionally buck up into Sam's hand and he wh- No, no, he did not whimper, because whimpering isn't manly at all, and Dean Winchester could never do anything south of manly.  
Sam apparently enjoyed the reaction that was – not – drawn out of his brother, and kept going, pinching Dean's left nipple between two fingers and applying a little pressure.  
“God, Sammy...”  
Sam couldn't help a small smile from forming at the corner of his mouth. “Sensitive, huh?”  
Dean rolled his eyes in spite of what Sam continued to do and smacked him lightly on the chest. “Shut up.”  
“Why don't you make me?” Sam countered, a mischievous glint in his eye.  
Dean took him up on the offer pretty quickly, pressing their mouths together and removing Sam's hand from his chest. “See what you do to me?” he asked around his brother's lips,   
pulling Sam's hand down to brush his fingertips over his achingly hard cock.  
Sam gasped into the kiss and shook off Dean's hand, making sure that he had complete control before wrapping his fist around Dean's dick and beginning to move in slow but firm vertical motions. “This is how I do it,” he whispered. “You know. When... To... to myself. But if you want it different, just tell me, and I'll-”  
Dean pressed a finger against Sam's lips, silencing him. “It's perfect, baby boy. I promise.”  
Sam didn't answer, just nodded and continued pumping his hand up and down, watching Dean's face to monitor what felt good and what felt holyfuckingshit good, until...  
“Sam... Oh, god, Sam, I’m gonna...”  
Sam leaned in, pressed his lips to Dean's ear, and commanded almost silently, “Come for me.”  
Dean fucking lost it. He came writhing and panting and chanting Sam's name, and it was one of the best orgasms he'd ever had and there hadn't even really been sex involved, but that was okay, because it was Sam, so it didn't matter. He almost didn't even feel Sam stop touching him after he'd ridden out the aftershocks and regained his hearing.  
Sam lifted his hand to his mouth and sucked the white, sticky substance from his fingers. “Hm. Didn't expect it to taste so...”  
“Weird?” Dean weakly supplied.  
“Good,” Sam corrected. “Are you okay?”  
Dean smiled, pulling Sam against him again. “I'm great. And... tired.”  
Sam yawned in agreement. “Wanna go back to sleep?”  
“Yeah,” Dean said, and then, his voice lower, added, “but when we wake up? My turn.”


	10. Chapter 10

Like a girl.  
That was a phrase Sam had become much too familiar with throughout the course of his life. Training? “You hit like a girl, Sam.” Playing sports? “You run like a girl, Sam.” Ordering dinner? “Salad? Really? God, you eat like a girl, Sam.” But he'd never heard it used quite the way Dean was using it now.  
“I'm gonna lick your ass like a girl, Sam.”  
Yeah. And it had never gotten him hard before, either. But, fuck, it was now. He couldn't exactly speak, so he went with nodding his consent as vigorously as he could and hoping Dean got the message.  
Dean had removed Sam's clothes a good fifteen or so minutes ago, but he'd spent the time from then to now simply taking in the sight of his naked, trembling, beautiful baby brother and determining which part of him to worship first. His decision? Sam's tight, round, fucking perfect ass.  
Sam managed to find his voice, then, and tentatively asked, “Do you, um... D'you want me to turn over?”  
Dean placed his hands on either side of Sam's hips and smiled, shaking his head. “No, baby boy. Wanna see you.”  
Sam breathed what sounded a bit like a sigh of relief and whispered, “Kay.”  
For a moment, Dean just ran his hand up and down Sam's stomach and chest in almost a massaging manner, feeling the knots of nerves under his brother's skin begin to untie themselves as his fingers played gently over them. “Sammy.” Dean's voice was hushed, calming, and he gave it time to cover Sam like a blanket before continuing. “Love you.”  
Sam smiled and turned his head to the side to kiss Dean's chest. “Love you, too.”  
Dean released a slow breath and let his hand rest at the base of Sam's stomach. “Ready?”  
Instead of responding verbally, Sam spread his legs and picked up Dean's hand, placing it on the inside of his thigh. Just as Dean had done to him.  
Dean automatically recognized the gesture, and the corner of his mouth turned up into a grin. “I'll take that as a yes. Even though I’m not using my hands,” he reminded, lifting his hand from Sam's leg and patting his arm before moving to position himself at the end of the bed. “Alright. Grab all the pillows 'cept one for you to keep your head on and toss 'em down here.”  
Sam was mildly confused, but did as he was told.  
Dean stacked the three pillows on top of each other and slid them forward. “I'm gonna put these under you, okay? So I can get some leverage.”  
Sam shook his head yes and lifted his hips so that Dean could slide the pillows under his ass.  
Dean, once Sam was comfortable, bent and began placing small kisses along the insides of Sam's thighs.  
Sam gasped, but remained, for the most part, silent and still. His only movement was to rest his hand on top of Dean's head.  
Dean continued to make his way toward the meeting point of Sam's legs and planted a final kiss on the left side of Sam's ass before placing one hand on each side and spreading Sam gently apart.  
Sam began shaking harder, then, and the hand in Dean's hair tightened slightly.  
Dean didn't move, sensing that Sam needed a moment to process exactly what was about to happen. “Okay, Sammy?”  
“Yeah,” Sam breathed. “Just... do it. Please.”  
Dean leaned down again, this time gently pinching Sam's skin between his teeth. “I think I like it when you ask like that. Better be careful or I'll make you beg.”  
Sam groaned. “Dean. Don't.”  
Dean chuckled almost directly against Sam's entrance, and he could see the muscles flutter at the touch of his breath. “Okay, okay. You win.”  
As soon as Dean's tongue touched his hole, Sam let out a moan that could have been described in no other way than pornographic.  
Dean pulled away slightly to whisper, “Jesus Christ,” and then got right back to business. Sam tasted exactly the way that Dean imagined he would. Not at all dirty, because nothing about Sam could ever be dirty. He tasted like silk and cotton and his coconut-orchid scented body wash. And it may have been better than pie. Not that Dean would ever admit that, of course.  
Unknowingly interrupting his brother's train of thought, Sam panted between small gasps of pleasure, “You lied, you know.”  
Dean stopped what he was doing, immediately beginning to backtrack. “I... About what?”  
“You said you weren't gonna use your hands,” Sam reminded him. “But you lied. You are.”  
Dean looked up at Sam from between his legs, raising an eyebrow. “Oh, am I?”  
Sam nodded rather confidently. “Yeah. You're gonna fuck me with your fingers.”  
Dean's mouth literally dropped as he stared up at his brother in awe, amazed at his sudden dominance. “Um... I mean, yeah, if that's...”  
Sam pushed himself up on his elbows. “Problem?”  
Dean shook his head. “No. God, no. I just didn't expect you to... I dunno. But if that's what you want, baby boy, I’m all for it.”  
“It is,” Sam assured him, sitting up. “Do you wanna get...”  
“Lube?” Dean finished, already standing up from the bed. “Yeah. You wouldn't happen to have any in here, would you?”  
Sam shook his head. “I've never had much of a use for it. Or... you know... any use for it at all, really. But we don't even have to, I just thought...”  
The corner of Dean's mouth turned up into a half-smile and he placed the palm of his hand against Sam's cheek. “It'll hurt you less that way, sweetheart. I'll go get some.”  
Sam's mouth fell open, but no sound other than a small gasp came out.  
Dean raised his eyebrow questioningly.  
Sam cleared his throat and prompted, “Go,” without answering his brother's unspoken question.  
Shaking his fingers through his hair with a shrug, Dean exited the room.  
Sweetheart. Jesus. Sam let himself fall back against the bed and ran a hand over his face. Pet names had always been kind of a thing for him, but the only one he was used to hearing from Dean was baby boy. Which, of course, had the same basic effect. It was just that he'd gotten accustomed to it. Sweetheart, though. That was new. Well, he'd heard Dean say it to plenty of waitresses and strippers and pretty much every other variety of woman out there, but it was new for Dean to say it to him, and he liked it.  
Dean returned and sat down on the edge of the bed, flipping open the cap on the bottle of lube in his left hand and generously coating the fingers on his right.  
The sight shut Sam's mind down, and all he could do was stare. Those fingers – those strong, graceful fingers that he'd seen so many times cleaning weapons and pulling triggers and curling into fists to knock out the motherfuckers trying to take them down – were about to be inside him.   
And then they were. Well, not inside, exactly, but at his entrance. Dean, who was now lying beside Sam, was circling the tip of his middle finger around Sam's hole and applying a small amount of pressure; just enough to slide past the first ring of muscle. “Okay, sweetheart, I need you to relax for me or this won't work.”  
Sam gasped at his brother's second use of the endearment and forced the tension from his body as best he could.  
Dean laughed, a light, sweet sound, like honey, and whispered directly into Sam's ear as if they weren't entirely alone, “Thought I didn't notice? Well, I did. And I bet sweetheart's not the only one you like, is it?”  
Sam let out a loud moan as Dean's finger slipped past another ring of muscle, but didn't respond.  
Dean dropped the subject for a moment and took Sam's hand in his free one. “This might hurt just a little, okay? But I’m almost in. Tell me if you need me to stop.”   
The motion was much more smooth than Sam expected it to be, and slightly less painful, and after just a moment of the burning sensation, he could feel nothing but the sharpest pleasure he had ever experienced in his life. It hit him hard, fast, and he could feel his orgasm building already. He knew there was no way in hell he should be finishing so quickly, especially with no friction on his cock whatsoever, but he couldn't help it. This was an entirely new feeling to him, and it was fucking good. “Mmm, Dean...”  
“Like it when you say my name like that, baby.” Dean's voice was low and rough and just the way Sam liked it, and Sam should've known he wouldn't just forget about the whole name thing.  
Baby. Baby. Not baby boy, just baby, and fuck if that wasn't the hottest thing he'd ever heard in his life. Hot enough, accompanied by the new angle that Dean had just taken on to hit Sam's prostate, to send him straight over the edge. “Oh... Oh, god... Oh, fuck, Dean, just like that. Don't stop. Fuck... Dean... Dean... Dean...” And then Sam was coming harder than he thought possible, his entire body shaking and grinding itself down on Dean's hand like he would die if he didn't get every bit of contact that he could before he finally started to come down.  
Dean pulled out quickly so that it wouldn't prolong any discomfort and wrapped his arm around Sam's waist, softly kissing Sam's temple. “You okay?”  
“I'm fucking awesome,” came Sam's somewhat slurred reply.  
Dean chuckled. “Yeah, well, you're also fucking sticky. Wanna get cleaned up?”  
Sam looked up at Dean, a mischievous glint in his eye, and responded, “If getting cleaned up means getting in the shower and you showing me exactly how to suck your dick, yeah.”  
Dean had never gotten undressed so quickly in his life.


	11. Chapter 11

Your daddy didn't make it out.  
The words echoed through Dean's mind in a string, repetitive and never-ending, and no matter how many times he heard Bobby's sorrow-filled voice stumble over each syllable, he couldn't make himself believe it. He didn't hear the rest; not the part about how John had walked right into the nest of caves or how the wendigos had come at him from all sides or how they'd completely ignored Bobby when he'd tried to piss them off just to get them away from John. No. All Dean heard was that single, groundbreaking sentence. Your daddy didn't make it out.  
It had been about an hour since he'd told Sam. Bobby had asked if Dean wanted him to do it, but Dean had refused. It was his duty. His responsibility. And he'd planned on breaking it to Sam delicately, but when he'd tried, the words had refused to come out unaccompanied by sobs violent enough to shake his entire body. It took him three tried before Sam even understood what he was saying.  
Sam seemed to be holding up pretty well, all things considered. It could've been that he was in shock, but either way, he understood that by some unspoken rite it was his turn to take care of Dean at that moment. He'd deal with his own feelings later. Meanwhile, his brother was about two seconds from a full-blown breakdown, so he mentally shuffled through the files of everything he'd ever known to distract Dean. He realized, after thinking for a moment, that the one thing that could pull Dean's focus more absolutely than anything else was himself. More specifically, taking care of him. “Hey. Hey. I was looking at my leg earlier, and it really needs re-stitching now that the infection's better. I don't want Bobby to have to worry about it after we get there, and we told him we'd be over soon. Do you wanna handle that now?”  
Dean didn't speak, but his eyes snapped up to Sam's for the first time in at least the past thirty minutes, and he gave a sharp nod.  
“Okay.” Sam placed his hand on Dean's cheek, almost cradling his face, and Dean let him hold it there for a moment before muttering something about getting the medical kit.  
It may have seemed insane for Sam to let someone as mentally unstable as Dean was right then anywhere near him with a needle, but Sam held infinite trust for his brother. And he also knew that Dean was never more concentrated than when he was trying to divert his attention from something. So he pushed off his pants and sat down on the edge of the bed, waiting silently and patiently for Dean.  
When Dean returned, he didn't miss a beat, just dropped to his knees in front of Sam and got to work. Almost all of the stitches had come out once the swelling had gone down because they'd been stretched so tightly, so he basically had to start over completely.  
As soon as the needle pierced his skin, it was obvious to Sam that this was going to be hell. Stitches were never much fun to begin with, but this area was much more sensitive than usual considering how infected it had been and how bad the wound was in the first place. He was used to Dean stitching him up after hunts, but it was never anything like this. Still, he tried his hardest to remain still and not think about the pain. Dean needed this. Needed to do this.  
However, when Sam was in severe pain, Dean immediately sensed it, no matter the situation. His leg did need re-stitching. Badly. There was no question about that. And Dean had already started, so it didn't make sense to just quit. But he hated the thought of hurting Sam, and put down the needle for a moment to give Sam time to adjust. If he was going to do this, he was going to do it as gently as he possibly could. He knew that Sam was doing it for him, to distract him, and he'd never been more grateful for anything in his life. So he wanted to take his time and make sure Sam knew how much he appreciated it. It wasn't like there was really anything that could fully take away the blow of finding out that your father was dead, but Dean's main purpose in life was and would always be to make sure that Sam was okay. So he could do it. Make himself stop thinking for long enough to take care of his baby brother.  
When Dean picked up the needle again, Sam started trembling and gripped the sheets so hard that his knuckles were white. But he didn't move. He held himself still and tried not to scream when Dean neared the center of the jagged mass of cuts, where it hurt more than anywhere else. He felt tears forming in his eyes and let them spill over, knowing they weren't going to stop until Dean was done, so there was really no point in trying to hide them.  
“Sammy.” Dean's voice was wrecked from crying, but still so concerned that it made Sam's heart ache. “I can stop if...”  
“No,” Sam whispered. “No, go ahead. You only have one side left. Hurt worse than this when it got infected and you were cleaning it. I can handle it.”  
“Well... okay,” Dean sceptically agreed. “But if it's too much, you just tell me.”  
Sam nodded. “I will.”  
They were both mostly silent after that, aside from Dean occasionally murmuring, “Sorry,” or, “Almost done.” And then, he was done. And he looked up at Sam with a lost, terrified expression, because it was over. The distraction was gone.  
Sam pulled Dean forward, cradling his brother's head against his stomach, and leaned down to kiss his hair. Sam wasn't used to the 'big brother' role, obviously. But, dammit, he was going to fight through the searing pain in his leg and play it. “Listen to me. We're gonna get through this, okay? It's not gonna be easy, I know. But we will. You and me and Bobby, we'll all get through it together, and everything's gonna be okay. It'll take a while, sure, but I promise.”  
Dean didn't respond for a long moment, just buried his face more deeply into Sam's shirt. When he finally spoke, he couldn't keep the tears from resurfacing, and choked out through them, “Never leave me, Sammy.”  
Sam felt his heart shatter into a million pieces and wished they would just slice through his chest and wrap themselves around Dean like a shield. “Never, baby,” he whispered. “Never. I love you so much.”  
Dean just began sobbing harder at that, and curled his hands into fists around Sam's cotton tee. Under usual circumstances, he would've slapped Sam upside the head for calling him baby and probably responded, “Yeah, yeah,” to the 'I love you,' but these were not usual circumstances, and Dean knew that Sam knew that he'd said exactly what Dean needed to hear.  
Sam stroked the back of Dean's head softly with one hand, rubbing his back with the other. “Shhh. It's okay. I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere.”  
Once the tears finally subsided, at least to an extent, Dean used Sam's knees to push himself up and took a seat on the bed. “I'm sorry. You shouldn't be doing this. It's not like he isn't...” Fuck. “Wasn't your dad, too.”  
Sam took Dean's hand and squeezed. “I know. But it was... different for me. Not that I... didn't love him just as much as you, of course, but we had a really, really different kind of relationship. It's hard for me, too. And I'll be honest, it'll get worse for me later. I know it will. That's just the way I’m wired. But I think... I think he'd want me to take care of you right now.”  
Dean leaned his head against Sam's shoulder without speaking, pressing a soft kiss to his neck.   
“Are you ready?” Sam asked, not wanting to rush Dean by any means, but also not wanting to worry Bobby.  
Dean cleared his throat, sniffled so pitifully that Sam's heart broke all over again, and nodded, sitting up straight. “Yeah. Let's go.”  
They'd packed right after Dean had relayed the news to Sam, so all they had to do now was pick up their bags and head out the door.   
Once outside, Sam followed Dean to the Impala, but frowned when Dean opened the door and slid into the driver's seat after tossing their bags into the back. “Are you okay to drive?” he asked, peering in at his brother through the open window.   
Dean shook his head yes. “It'll help,” he explained simply.  
“Okay,” Sam agreed, walking around the car to settle into his designated spot. “But if-”  
“I'd pull over,” Dean assured without Sam even having finished his question. “Let you drive.”  
Satisfied, Sam leaned back, letting his eyes fall closed for a few seconds until Dean started the car, and then looking over at him. “Would you be okay if I took a quick nap? I mean, you could wake me up if you needed me, you know, I just...” Sam breathed a long sigh.  
Dean met his gaze for a second as he pulled out of the driveway and detected an underlying expression of pain. Physical pain. Thinking it may be Sam's leg, Dean asked, worriedly, if he was okay.  
“Migraine,” Sam admitted. “But I'll be fine.”  
Secretly, Dean was thankful. This gave him something to focus on. As bad as it sounded, if something was wrong with Sam, it gave him an excuse to ignore anything else that might be going on. If Sammy had a headache and needed sleep, then that was exactly what he was going to get. And making sure that Sam was alright, making sure that he was comfortable, gave Dean something to tend to during the drive. He reached over and placed his right hand on Sam's thigh, rubbing his thumb in soothing circles. “Go ahead and take a nap. I'll wake you up when we get there if you're still asleep by then.”  
Sam gave Dean a somewhat watery smile – for which Dean felt great sympathy, knowing how quickly Sam's migraines progressed and how bad they got – and closed his eyes again. Something felt off. Wrong. He got these headaches a lot, and they were always terrible, but this one was different. They made him sick sometimes, but that was just nauseous. This was his whole body. Like he had the flu. And it had hit him so quickly there weren't even warning signs. It hadn't even started to come on until he'd gotten into the car, which couldn't have been more than two minutes ago. He quickly shook the thoughts away, deciding maybe he just needed some rest, and, contented by the feeling of Dean's warm hand still resting on his thigh, drifted off to sleep.


	12. Chapter 12

As Dean drove, just as he predicted that they would, his thoughts eventually shifted to John. But not John's death, necessarily. Mainly, to what exactly would have happened if John had found out about the new relationship that his sons had adapted into. Would he have had them shipped off somewhere? Gone insane, thought it was his fault somehow? Dean shuddered. Fault. That didn't seem like a word that really fit into this scenario. Fault meant something bad. Something wrong. Something that could never apply to Sam. Speaking of whom...   
Dean glanced over at his brother, all thoughts of his father immediately shut down by Sam's appearance. Something was so not okay. Sure, Sam had gotten a migraine. Not uncommon for him at all. Very common, in fact, when he was stressed. And... father's death? That's a pretty stressful event. So Dean was sure he'd just sleep it off, as usual, and it would all be fine. Well, yeah, he was sleeping, but if anything he was looking continuously worse. Sam's face was paler than Dean had seen it in quite some time, and he was pouring sweat. Which would make sense considering the heat in South Dakota in the middle of summer, except... they couldn't feel any of it. The air in the Impala was up full-blast. Dean actually had chills. Sam absolutely should not be sweating.   
Letting go of the wheel with his right hand, Dean reached over and pressed the inside of his wrist against Sam's forehead, which, to his surprise was just as cold as the air in the car, if not colder. He'd expected that the sweating indicated a fever, but apparently not. And then he remembered something. Something he'd read a long, long time ago. Something about how temp drops were the same kind of not okay as Sam looked. This was worse than a fever. His body wasn't even fighting.   
Dean muttered, “Shit,” under his breath and placed his hand on Sam's shoulder, gently shaking him. “Sammy. Hey. Wake up, kiddo.”  
Nothing.  
“Sam. Come on, man, wake up.”  
Not so much as the flutter of an eyelid.  
“Sam!” Dean slid his hand to the side, over Sam's chest, and felt for a heartbeat, which, to his overwhelming relief, he found with no trouble.  
But Sam still didn't move.   
Dean lifted his hand back to the wheel, floored the gas, and prayed like hell to everything he could think of that Sam would be okay.

…...............................................................

By the time Dean pulled the Impala into Bobby's driveway, Sam had started to come around. Well, sort of. He wasn't exactly responsive, but he was somewhat conscious, and Dean wasn't arguing with that. “Sammy?”  
“...Hm?”  
“What's wrong, baby boy?” Dean asked, turning off the car, but not moving to exit it. “You hurtin'?”  
A small, weak nod.  
“Can you tell me where?”  
Sam took a few slow breaths before whispering, “Everywhere.”  
“Okay,” Dean said, taking Sam's hand and gently squeezing. “Okay, you're gonna be fine, alright? Let's get you inside.”  
Sam didn't have time to answer before passing out again.  
Dean pushed open his door and made his way almost frantically to the passenger side of the car, opening Sam's door and extracting him as carefully as he possibly could. “I gotcha,” he murmured, pressing his lips to Sam's chestnut brown hair and starting up Bobby's porch steps.  
Bobby appeared in the doorway just then, red-rimmed eyes immediately going wide upon the sight of Sam. “Holy hell, boy,” he began, pushing open the screen door in front of him and stepping outside to help Dean carry Sam into the house. “What happened to him?”  
Once they made it to the living room and placed Sam carefully on the couch, Dean's temporary emotional stronghold broke. “I don't know,” he told Bobby, shaking his head and fighting not to burst into tears for the millionth time that day. “He was fine one minute, and then we got in the car and he said he had a headache and that he needed to go to sleep, and then... then this. I don't know what to do. He woke up once, right after we pulled in, and all he said was that everything hurt.”  
Bobby peered at Sam over the back of the couch, the look on his face slightly contemplative and extremely worried. “We're just gonna have to keep an eye on him for now. Let him rest a while, see how he feels in a couple hours or so, and if worst comes to worst, there's a hospital a couple miles down the road.”  
Dean nodded absently and tried to stay focused on what Bobby was saying, on Sam, but the fact of the matter was, right then, nothing was changing. Sam was still asleep. It didn't look like he was waking up anytime soon, and until he did, there would be no way of figuring out what was wrong. So, there was really no point in trying. Which was why his train of thought decided that it would be okay to divert itself and consider the fact that his father's body was somewhere in the general vicinity instead. “Where is he?” Dean asked. He hadn't meant to speak aloud. Really, he'd just been thinking the words, and they'd spilled from his mouth without permission.  
Bobby sighed, a haunted look slowly seeping into his features. They hadn't been on the subject, but, of course, he was aware of exactly to whom Dean was referring. “He's... he's in the garage, son, but there's really not all that much left.”  
Dean waited. Upon hearing those words, he expected himself to break again. But it didn't happen. He felt something, sure; a sting in his chest. But it was nothing compared to what he assumed it would be. Maybe I’m finally starting to go numb, he thought to himself. Thank god. It was his usual instinct. Go numb, block out emotional pain receptors. He'd been afraid when it hadn't happened immediately in this case, but he'd known right from the beginning that it would eventually. He just hadn't been sure when. “Can I see?” he asked Bobby somewhat tentatively. He was afraid, of course. But he needed to. For closure. He needed to see his father one last time, even if it didn't really look like his father anymore.  
Bobby placed a hand on his shoulder. “Have you had anything to eat today?”  
Dean thought for a moment before shaking his head. “No.”  
“Well, let's get some food in you for now. You can go see him tonight if you're still up to it,” Bobby compromised.  
Dean gave Bobby a sharp nod and couldn't help thinking that if Bobby had been the one who'd just died, John wouldn't have so much as blinked at the thought that Dean hadn't eaten all day. Of course, in terms of genetics, John was undeniably Dean's father. But, for all intents and purposes, which of the two men who'd had at least a 50/50 hand in raising him was really his dad?


	13. Chapter 13

When Sam woke, the first sound he heard was Dean's voice, and then Bobby's, both immediately comforting. Especially considering how... well... uncomfortable he was. He experimentally rolled onto his side, which caused his back to ache a little, but it wasn't so bad that it kept him from getting up and making his way slowly into the kitchen.   
“Hey, kiddo,” Dean greeted, pulling out the chair beside him and motioning for Sam to sit down.  
“Hey,” Sam offered weakly, taking a seat.  
“How ya feelin'?” Dean asked, reaching under the table to gently rub Sam's thigh.  
Sam shook his head and placed his hand on top of Dean's, making the action as inconspicuous as possible so that Bobby, who was seated across the table, wouldn't notice. “I dunno. I'm... I feel weird.”  
“Weird how?” Bobby questioned, picking up the coffee cup, no doubt spiked with something, in front of him and taking a long drink.   
Sam sighed, rubbing his eyes with his free hand. “Like... almost like I have the flu, but it came on so fast I don't know how that's even possible.”  
“How's your head? Still hurt?”  
Sam shrugged, lifting his arm to cough into his elbow before responding. “A little. Better than it was in the car, though.”  
“You hungry?” Bobby stood, already heading toward one of the cabinets, but stopped when Sam shook his head.  
“No,” Sam quickly assured Bobby, his stomach churning at the thought of food. “No, I'm good. Thanks. I think, uh... I actually just wanna go back to sleep.”  
Bobby sat back down, shooting a sympathetic look to Sam. “Well, you boys know your room's always ready for you.”  
Sam sighed, the thought of a warm bed extremely tempting.  
“Why don't you head on up, Sammy? I'll go get our bags out of the car and bring them to ya so you can change into some sweats,” Dean offered.  
“Yeah,” Sam agreed. “Sounds good.”  
Dean watched his brother walk almost cautiously up the stairs before standing and pushing his chair against the table. “God. Last thing that kid needs right now is to be sick.”  
Bobby rubbed his eyes tiredly. “Yeah, and the last thing you need is to have to play nurse with your baby brother.”  
“It, uh... it helps, actually,” Dean admitted. “Y'know, just... takes my mind off things, I guess. Anyway, I wouldn't mind if it didn't. Takin' care of Sam's my job. Always has been.”  
“Don't you ever need someone to take care of you?”  
Bobby's question was simple, but it left Dean's mind reeling a little. Except... “Well, you do. You take care of both of us.”  
Bobby shook his head sadly. “I don't even see you once a month, boy. You need more than that.”  
Dean glanced down, his boots suddenly becoming his primary focus, and hesitated for a moment before responding. “Sammy takes care of me just like I take care of him. Goes both ways. Wanna help me unload the car?”  
Bobby seemed a bit less than satisfied, but didn't push it, and gave Dean a nod, heading out the door.

* * *

By the time Sam heard a gentle knock, he'd almost dozed back off already. “C'min,” he muttered.  
When Dean pushed the door open, he found Sam lying on the bed uncovered and in his underwear. Wearing almost nothing, he still looked like he was burning up. “Hey, baby boy,” Dean whispered, taking a seat on the bed and pressing his wrist against Sam's forehead. He was almost hesitant about it, fearing that Sam's temperature would still be too low, but breathed a sigh of relief at his brother's warm skin. Not feverish. Pretty much normal. Just a little clammy.  
“D'n.” Sam grasped at his hand; an indicator for him to lie down. “Take your clothes off.”  
Dean froze. Sam couldn't honestly be asking for... not right now... “Sammy, I don't think-”  
Sam opened one eye and scrunched up his face in annoyance. “'R'you stupid? Not like that. Feel like shit. Just wan' you to hold me, but 'm hot. Your clothes are gonna make it worse.”  
“Oh.” Dean couldn't help letting out a small laugh, unsure if it was at himself for assuming that Sam had been propositioning something sexual at a time like this or at his brother's half-slurred speech.  
“Well, do it,” Sam prompted, interrupting Dean's train of thought.  
Dean complied, stripping down to his boxers and climbing back into bed beside Sam. “You need anything? Water? Want some medicine now that you're awake for a few?”  
Sam shook his head, pulling Dean close. “Jus' you. Don' leave. Everybody always leaves.”  
“What?” Dean tilted up Sam's head, which had been resting on his chest, and held his gaze. “What do you mean?”  
Sam buried his face in Dean's chest again. “Mom left. And Dad... Dad...”  
Dean should've known it would hit Sam soon. Especially considering that he was sick. Even without a fever, he obviously wasn't exactly in his normal state of mind. “Sammy...”  
At the sound of Dean's voice, Sam broke. Broke like somebody had let down a dam. It didn't start off slow, didn't begin with sniffling and trying to hold it in. Sam just cried. He cried until he couldn't breathe, until there were no tears left, and then he cried some more.  
And Dean held him through the whole thing and murmured, “I've got you,” and, “I'm right here,” and, “I'm not gonna leave you,” over and over.   
And Sam, despite everything, believed him. Just like always. Because this was Dean. His Dean. And as long as he was here, Sam knew that he'd be safe. So when the sobs finally subsided, Sam felt the press of Dean's lips to the top of his head and let himself drift into unconsciousness.


	14. Chapter 14

Sam's laugh was like music to Dean's ears. Mainly because he hadn't heard it in so long, not since before the wendigo attack, really, and also because Sam had been so out of it the day before that anything normal, anything at all, was enough to make his heart pick up speed. It was mid-afternoon of their second day at Bobby's house. They were seated on the couch watching some horrible attempt at a horror movie that they'd found on one of Bobby's shelves, and Sam was cracking up about how god-awful the acting was. “I mean, I know this is old and times have changed and all, but seriously. It's like they're not even trying. Are they even trying?”  
Dean didn't respond, but he knew Sam didn't really expect him to. He just pulled the blanket that was currently covering both of them a little higher up on his baby brother's chest and kissed the back of his shoulder.   
Sam pressed himself tighter against Dean and murmured a soft sound of contentment. “You're really cuddly today.”  
“Awh, Sammy, c'mon, man. Don't use words like that to describe Dean friggin' Winchester.”  
Sam giggled, like only Sam would. “It's not my fault you're a big softie.”  
“I'm just glad you're feelin' a little better. 'S'all,” Dean clarified. Dishonestly. Not that he wasn't glad Sam was feeling better, of course, because he was. But there was really nothing (besides maybe sex and pie, and possibly Baby) that he enjoyed more than this.  
Sam rolled his eyes, but didn't bother to suppress the smile that he knew his brother would be able to hear in his voice when he spoke. “What the hell ever.”  
Dean kissed Sam's shoulder again, and this time, Sam turned to face him. “Now, Sammy, you know you're gonna miss the movie if you're lookin' at me, right? And this one's a life changer. You'll never be the same again after you've seen it, scout's honor.”  
Sam scoffed. “Yeah, I don't doubt that. Somehow, though, I think I'll survive.”  
The corner of Dean's mouth turned up, and he leaned in to press his lips gently to his brother's, but Sam held his finger to them before they could reach his own.  
“I don't want you to get whatever I have,” Sam explained. “I’m already letting you breathe all my germy air. Don't push it.”  
It was Dean's turn to roll his eyes, now. “Sam. I'll be fine.”  
“I'm sure you're right. Just like I’m fine. But that doesn't mean this crap doesn't suck. And I don't want you to catch it if I can help it. So no kissing until I’m better. Like, totally better. Not just better enough to stay awake thr-”  
Dean decided he was done listening to Sam's stipulations and took matters into his own hands, bringing their mouths together while his brother was distracted with speaking to assure that he wouldn't have time to object again. During which time, Dean took note of something. Sam's lips were much more dry than they should be; a sure sign of dehydration. Excellent. Just what Sam needed.  
Sam took Dean's hesitation as an opportunity to pull away and promptly flick his nose. “I said-”  
“I don't care what you said, Sammich. If I wanna kiss you, then I'll kiss you,” Dean stated, masking his worry with humor, as usual.  
“I'm gonna tape my mouth shut so,” Sam paused, yawning, and then continued, “you can't...” Giggle. “...do it anymore.”  
“Meds kicking in?” Dean asked, a slightly entertained tone entering his voice.  
Sam nodded. “Yup. 'Bout time. It's been, like, half an hour.”  
“You gettin' tired again?”  
“Mm... a little, yeah. Don't wanna go to sleep, though.”  
“Then what do you wanna do?” Dean inquired, stroking Sam's hair.  
“What do you think I wanna do?” Sam asked slyly, and, oh, man, if it hadn't just been the medication talking, Dean would've been all over that as fast as a fucking squirrel on a telephone pole, because, god, he missed Sam.  
But, against his better judgment, Dean cleared his throat and responded, “Sammy, two minutes ago, you were tryin' to keep me from kissing you.”  
Sam pursed his lips. “Yeah? So? I’m not now.”  
Dean was a little too preoccupied with willing his dick to stay down to say anything for a moment, but when he finally got it under control, he cupped Sam's face in his palm. “I don't wanna do this right now.”  
A mixture of shock and hurt crossed Sam's face. “Oh...”  
“No, no, I mean, I want to. God, Sam, you have no idea how much I want to. But I want you to be in the right mindset first, okay? If you'd been all over me before your medicine started making you loopy, then I wouldn't even be questioning it. But I wanna be sure you really want it whenever we do stuff like that. Make sense?”  
Sam shook his head yes, looking much less offended, but more frustrated now. “Yeah, I get it.”  
“Okay. Good.” Dean leaned down and kissed Sam's forehead, letting his lips linger for a moment to determine whether or not his brother had a low temperature again, or maybe a high one this time, which, thankfully, it didn't feel like was the case. “So, if you still don't wanna sleep, then what else?”  
Sam was quiet for a moment, and his reply was almost inaudible. “I wanna see Dad.”  
Dean gasped. “Kiddo, I... I really don't think-”  
“Please?” Sam looked up at Dean through his lashes, his eyes scared but honest.   
Dean blew out a long breath. “Are you sure you're up to that?” Dean had actually been planning on it, himself, the day before, but hadn't gotten around to it as he'd been too busy taking care of Sam.  
“I need to,” Sam told him. “One more time while there's still something besides ashes to look at. I know it won't look like him. I mean, I’m sure it's kind of more bits and pieces than anything. Can't imagine much more after a ton of wendigos fighting over him. But...”  
“Okay,” Dean conceded. “Yeah, we can go see him. Are you sure you want to now? Or would you rather wait for Bobby?”  
“Now,” Sam whispered.   
Dean didn't say another word, but helped Sam up from the couch and slowly outside to Bobby's garage. “Do you want me to go first?” he asked softly, eyes glued on the garage door.  
Sam shook his head. “No. I'll go.” Sam walked forward cautiously and bent, lifting the door from the bottom. Immediately, his nose was met with a painfully familiar scent. Rotting flesh. Knowing that it was the flesh of his father started an internal battle within his mind. Part of him wanted to stop in his tracks and turn back toward the house. The other, however, the bigger part, was even more determined to step inside and find the source of the smell. So, he obeyed.  
As soon as he saw what he was looking for, he felt his emotions shut themselves down. John's body was lying on an old, metal table in the corner of the room. Covered, of course. But there were blood stains on the sheet, so Sam knew. The figure underneath didn't look much like a body, but he guessed that was just what was left of it. And he wouldn't have hesitated to walk over and pull the sheet off if it hadn't been for the sudden weight of Dean's hands on his hips, silently instructing him to wait; that his brother wasn't ready. So, of course, Sam waited. He waited until Dean let go and took his hand instead, beside him rather than behind him, showing that it was okay to go ahead.  
As soon as Sam removed the sheet, he heard his brother start gagging. He turned to Dean and placed his hand on his back just in time for him to double over and vomit onto the concrete floor. Sam squeezed his eyes shut to keep sympathetic tears from escaping. “I know,” he murmured. “It's okay. You're okay. Why don't you go back inside? I’m just gonna clean this up and then I'll be right there, okay?”  
“Sammy...” Dean coughed and righted himself, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “You don't have-”  
“Shhh,” Sam whispered, leaning up very slightly to kiss Dean's cheek. “Just go.”  
Dean sighed tiredly and nodded his consent, starting back toward the house and leaving Sam alone in the garage.  
Sam didn't move for a moment. Just stood staring at the remnants of John's corpse and making a mental note to tell Bobby that they'd had their chance to get closure, so it was time to salt and burn. He didn't feel anything, but he knew it was because of the shock. Because he wasn't letting himself. He couldn't. He didn't know what would happen if he allowed himself not to block out everything, so he didn't take the chance.  
After quickly pulling the sheet back across the table, Sam found a bucket and a few old rags in the old sink on the far wall of the garage and cleaned up the floor before making his way back to the house where, coincidentally, Bobby happened to be pulling up. Sam waited on the porch for him to get out of the car so that they could talk about John without being in Dean's presence.   
Bobby shut off the engine and pushed open his door, grabbing the grocery bags from the passenger seat and stepping out to meet Sam. He looked slightly hesitant, and Sam guessed it was probably because of his own hollow expression. “Hey, son,” Bobby began slowly. “How are ya? I picked up some more medicine while I was in town. Figured we were probably runnin' low.”  
Sam gave him a grim smile. “Thanks. I’m okay right now, but I think we are running kinda low, and I’m sure I'll need some more later. I’m more worried about Dean than myself at the moment, though.”  
Bobby raised an eyebrow, setting down he bags he was holding on the porch. “Why's that?”  
“We, uh...” Sam didn't finish his sentence, but gestured toward the garage.   
Bobby's eyes went wide for a moment, and then his expression softened as he placed a hand on Sam's shoulder. “What happened?”  
Sam glanced down, chewing on the side of his lip. “He threw up. Soon as he saw. I was fine, but I’m not too sure he is. I think it's time.”  
Sam hadn't specified what he thought it was time for, but Bobby knew what he meant. “Yeah, I think you're right. We'll handle it soon. Tomorrow, maybe. Make sure you boys don't have anything of his that his spirit could be holdin' onto, and if you do, we'll burn it with his body.”  
Sam gave him a curt nod and turned toward the door, pushing it open.  
Bobby picked up the bags again and followed Sam into the house, kicking the door shut behind him. “You hungry yet?”  
To Sam's surprise, his stomach actually growled at the thought of food. Possibly, he considered, because he hadn't eaten in over a day. “Yeah, actually,” he told Bobby.  
“Go get your brother and we'll have some dinner. How's chicken sound?”  
“Awesome,” Sam responded. “We'll be down in a few.”  
Sam walked through the living room and up the stairs to the room that he and his brother shared, lightly tapping on the closed door. “De?”  
He heard Dean clear his throat before answering, “Yeah?”  
“Can I come in?” Sam knew it wasn't like there was any side of Dean that he hadn't seen before, but everyone needed their privacy sometimes.  
“Yeah, you can come in,” Dean confirmed.  
Sam pushed the door open to find Dean seated on the edge of the bed, hands crossed in his lap, head down. “Are you okay?”  
Dean looked up at him, the corner of his mouth twisting into a small, sad smile. “I'm alright. What's up?”  
“Bobby's making chicken,” Sam reported. “You wanna eat?”  
“Sure. I think I’m gonna go shower real quick first and then I'll be down. I just feel kinda gross.”  
“That's fine,” Sam assured him.  
Dean surprised Sam, then, by pulling him down into his lap and wrapping his arms tightly around him. “Thank you,” he said quietly.  
“For what?” Sam asked, confused, running his fingers through Dean's short hair.  
“Just... for being an awesome brother.”  
Sam let out a small laugh and disentangled himself from Dean's arms, standing up again. “Well, one of us has to be. Ow! Don't hit me, I’m joking. Go take a shower.”  
Dean allowed Sam to take his hand and pull him up from the bed. “Yes, sir.”  
Sam stopped in his tracks and shivered. “Don't... don't do that.”   
Dean started to ask why, but when he saw Sam's face, he didn't need to. “Hm. I'll have to keep that in mind.” With a wink, he walked out the door and headed down the hall toward the bathroom.  
Sam blinked a few times, attempting to clear his mind and keep from thinking about Dean using those words in a slightly more compromising situation, before heading back down to the kitchen to see if Bobby needed any help.  
About thirty minutes later, there were bowls of potatoes and corn on the table along with a large platter of fried chicken. And Dean must have smelled it from upstairs, because he was standing beside Sam before Sam had time to yell for him to come down. “Feel like I haven't eaten in a year,” he commented, picking up a piece of chicken and stuffing it into his mouth.   
Sam smacked his hand away as he reached for another. “Quit. Sit down.”  
Dean huffed but didn't argue and took a seat at the table as Bobby handed him a plate. “Thanks,” he muttered, loading it down with food and digging in.  
The three men ate in comfortable silence for the most part, Sam inconspicuously rubbing Dean's bare foot with his sock-clad one under the table, Dean's eyes lingering on Sam's mouth for a little too long every time he took a bite, and then... then Sam started coughing. Not coughing like he was choking, coughing like he just couldn't breathe correctly. Like his chest was tight or his throat was swollen. Like he was having some type of allergic reaction, except that he wasn't allergic to anything that they were eating, or anything in the house, as far as they knew. “Sammy,” Dean addressed him, taking both his hands. “You alright, squirt? Can you talk to me?”  
“'M alright,” Sam managed between coughs. “Jus'... gimme a minute.”  
Bobby reached across the table for Sam's empty glass and filled it with water, handing it to Dean, who lifted it to Sam's mouth. “Can you take a drink for me?” Dean asked soothingly.  
Sam allowed Dean to pour the water into his mouth, and at first he thought trying to swallow it would choke him, but he managed to get it down, which helped the coughing subside.   
“What was that all about?” Bobby questioned, clapping a hand on Sam's back.  
“Dunno,” Sam answered breathlessly. “Just... felt like there wasn't enough air all of a sudden. I’m good now, though. I think.”  
“You think?” Dean realized that he was still holding Sam's hand and let go, not wanting Bobby to notice.  
“I'm kinda dizzy now,” Sam admitted.  
“D'you need to go lay down?”  
“Maybe.” Sam stood, but had to brace himself on the table to keep from falling. “Whoa.”  
Dean didn't hesitate, didn't ask questions, just hoisted Sam into his arms. “We might be back down in a bit,” he told Bobby.  
“I'll be here,” Bobby stated. “You just get some rest, Sam.”  
Sam weakly saluted him.  
Dean was surprised and frightened by the fact that Sam wasn't arguing with being carried. It generally took a lot for him to allow such treatment, and he hadn't even begun to protest.  
When they finally got upstairs and settled onto the bed, Dean kissed his left eyelid. I’m worried about you, baby boy. His right. I need to protect you. His nose. Make you better. His cheek. Make you okay. His forehead. Tell me how. His dry, cracking lips. I love you.  
Sam kissed him back. I love you. Long. This is how. Determined. Please. Wholly open to Dean. Need you.   
And Dean, as always, gave his Sammy exactly what he needed.


End file.
